


Heyes and Curry 2000

by hutchynstarsk



Category: Alias Smith and Jones
Genre: AU, Circus, Gen, conman, gunman, journeys, modern-day, trick shooter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-18
Updated: 2012-03-18
Packaged: 2017-11-02 03:16:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/364370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hutchynstarsk/pseuds/hutchynstarsk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Heyes and Curry lived in the modern world?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heyes and Curry 2000

**Author's Note:**

> With beta thanks to RAINBOWCHICKEN~!! :D 
> 
> I started this story for JOURNEY STORY BIG BANG, although I couldn't finish it in time. ♥ 
> 
> images of the men are used with permission from http://www.asjcollection.com/
> 
> other images from http://www.rgbstock.com/

Fandom: Alias Smith and Jones  
Genre: AU (modern day, circus), meeting fic, gen  
Length: 24,000 words  
Rating: PG-13

 

 

 

Heyes and Curry 2000

alternate title: Conman and Gunman

By Allie

 

A banner with garish but faded colors flapped in the warm summer breeze. 

TREVOR’S TRAVELLING WESTERN CIRCUS

The word ‘western’ looked newer than the other words. Kid paused and stared at the dubious monstrosity of the big tent, the faded lettering, and the overblown picture signs showing snarling tigers and skimpily-dressed ‘Old West’ dancer girls and Native American ‘princesses.’ It looked more like a peepshow than a real circus. He sighed.

Around the tent, people milled, checking out the rest of the small fair, few bothering with the barker. The small car show next to it made it difficult to concentrate on the smiling man calling out the attractions of the circus, even if you weren’t distracted by the cars, or repelled by the loud revving and gas fumes.

The barker removed his black hat—he was decked out in cowboy-esque attire—and flashed a brilliant smile with a deep dimple. “Step right up, folks, and buy your tickets! Circus starts at six o’clock sharp—first come, first serve! You don’t want to miss out, folks!” After staring at the signs and listening to him for a few moments, a couple of children eating cotton candy bought tickets, then wandered away. 

Now alone, the dimpled man slicked back his sweaty hair, and let his smile falter as he leaned against the makeshift podium.

Kid Curry cast a last longing glance at the shiny cars, old and new, and then hitched his bag over his shoulder and walked towards the circus tent. The dimpled barker touched his cowboy hat and smiled. Kid nodded back, and started past him.

“Buy a ticket—? Excuse me.” A light hand landed on his chest and stopped him. Kid looked down at the hand, then up at the dimpled smiling face. 

The man removed the hand. Wisely.

“I was told to come here,” said Kid. “I ain’t party crashing.”

“Your name?” Another dimpled smile. He wasn’t much older than Kid, but he had all the trademarks of a conman. 

“Kid Curry.”

“Oh, yeah, Lom will want to see you. Go on back. You really the fastest gun—?” He laughed, quickly interrupting himself. “No, I’m sorry. That’s none of my business! If you are, you don’t need to say so, and if you aren’t, you’d feel insulted that I asked.” Innocent-looking brown eyes met Kid’s gaze. The smile was in his whole face.

“Guess so,” said Kid, brushing past him.

#

“You’re late, son,” said Lom, peering at Kid over his glasses. He was graying a little, no longer in the flush of youth, and to Kid he looked old. Not “old” old, but old enough to be Kid’s father. That crucial fact made a difference. It always did. Kid recognized that it made him tightlipped, inclined to hackle. He contained it the best he could.

“My truck broke down.”

With his father, that wouldn’t have been good enough. It would’ve had to be ‘sir,’ and no excuses allowed or accepted. Or even acknowledged to exist. The whole world had better follow his father’s timetable, or else. 

Lom simply grunted and looked him over critically. “You have your own western kit?”

“Excuse me?”

“I didn’t just hire a trick shooter. You gotta look like a cowboy or an outlaw or something. This is a western-themed circus. Even the tigers have to wear bandanas.” He grinned, and Kid couldn’t tell if it was a joke or the man was serious. Kid stared at him.

Lom sighed. “Never mind. I’ll get Heyes to loan you something till you can get outfitted for yourself. You look about his size.”

“Heyes?” asked Kid.

“Heyes!” called Lom, raising his voice.

“Yes sir?” The dimpled man’s head popped round the corner of the tent with suspicious speed. His eyes looked wide and innocent. “You wanted me?”

“Quit eavesdropping and lend the Kid some of your clothes. This is Kid Curry, fastest young gun in the west. I expect to hear you talking him up out there. Anything with guns sells better than horse and pony tricks. Take him to bunk with Philips.”

For a second, Heyes looked like he wanted to argue. He cast Kid a glance, measuring him, then said, “I guess he’ll fit. C’mon, Kid.” The word ‘Kid’ held a faint measure of annoyance, even disdain.

Kid’s long, angry strides caught up with the conman quick enough. “I don’t aim to steal your clothes,” he said through gritted teeth.

“You aim to shower first, or do I gotta get them dry cleaned after you wear ‘em?” shot back Heyes.

“You got a shower in this one-trick pony show?”

Heyes glanced at him, a hint of smile returning to his eyes, as he seemed to try to figure out which metaphors Kid had mixed. “Yep, trailer in the back.”

“Good. Lead the way, gimme some clothes, and I’ll be fine.”

“Trixie will help you get settled,” said Heyes. “Trix?” He smiled brilliantly at a young woman who moved forward as if drawn by a string. She wore a very circus-y sort of outfit, all ruffles and tight spandex and almost nothing there. You could see—well— Kid’s mouth went dry. 

The girl gave Heyes a bright smile. When she spoke, she had a Russian accent. “Yes, Hannibal?”

He grimaced. “I asked you not to call me—”

Kid smirked. He wasn’t the only one with a weird name. 

“Never mind,” said Heyes. “Can you show Kid Curry” (he pronounced the name loudly and firmly), “to the showers and Phillips’ spare bunk?”

She nodded. “Da,” she said, still smiling at Heyes in a way that told Kid she wouldn’t be likely to notice him.

“Thanks.” Heyes gave her a brief hint of his smile, complete with glimpse of dimples, and then moved away. “I’ll fetch one of my outfits.”

Thirty minutes later, Kid Curry lay freshly washed and dried, wearing a clean pair of his jeans and a blue t-shirt, stretched out on the spare bunk in a trailer that belonged to a clown. It was in one of the big anonymous trailers camped around the back of the circus. Circus posters and faded photos and newspaper clippings of the clown in question covered the walls. Bowling pins for juggling crowded under the tiny table like lifeless penguins. The place smelled of sweat and some kind of powdery stuff that Kid figured was clown makeup.

The sheets seemed clean, and he’d slept worse places, so he didn’t complain. He just stuck his bag under the bed. Have to see about finding somewhere safe for it later; there were sure to be thieves at the circus, that Heyes guy if no one else.

Outside, he could hear Heyes’ voice carrying now through a megaphone, even over the revving of the car show.

“Come one, come all! See the amazing travelling circus! Lions and tigers! Clowns and amazing trick horses! Indian princesses! The tightrope walker! And now—the amazing Kid Curry, fastest gun in the West! That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, step right up to see the wonders of Trevors’ Travelling Western Circus! You’ll tell your children about it. You’ll tell your grandchildren!”

Kid snorted, smiling a little in spite of himself. Tell your grandchildren indeed. That Heyes was full of—hyperbole? Was that the word? Most people’d just say ‘shit,’ but Kid was trying to improve his vocabulary and learn the big words in Reader’s Digest. As he drifted, he replayed the word in his mind. Hy-per-bole. Like super-bowl, that had been his remembering key, and the super bowl was big. Except you said it different, not hyper-bowl, but different, somehow.

He drifted away, Super Bowls and Heyes’ overblown commentary drawing him down towards sleep. He had the oddest, clear dream of the conman smiling at him and pulling cards and then a rabbit from a hat.

“Kid Churry, you must wake up now,” said the beautiful blond Russian girl, shaking him and looking down into his face with worry around her heavily-made up eyes. “You must set up your show. Bang bang?”

“Oh, yeah.” Kid had been so tired he’d nearly forgotten. It had been such a long trip here and not much sleep. Then his car broke down, leaving him with a long walk and the brief hitchhike here. And yet his day had barely started, because he had to perform yet—earn his supper, so to speak.

He got up, scrubbed a hand through his nearly-dry hair, and yawned. “I’ll just get my stuff.” He reached under the bed and had a moment of nerves. But no, his bag was there, everything was in order. He shouldn’t have fallen asleep, but he’d gotten away with it this time.

The next hour was a flurry of work, the setup and negotiating for help moving things, fixing up props that could be moved easily when it was his turn in the ring. The strong man did most of the moving and seemed to be one of the breakdown and setup crew, not just the strongman. He also bossed around all the other helpers, and looked like he wanted to boss Kid around, too, as soon as he saw how young he looked.

But Kid, who barely needed to shave yet, gave him a squinty-eyed, dark look when he tried to move Kid’s gun and belt. And after that, the man left it alone.

Kid met Philips, his clown-roommate, for the first time when the man was getting ready to go out in the ring. He seemed incredibly keyed up, shook Kid’s hand perfunctorily with one bright, white glove. “Pleased to meet you,” he said, and told Kid how much the rent would be for the bottom bunk.

He turned back just before entering the ring. “Have you met Heyes?” He looked a little worried when Kid said yes. “Well, don’t play cards with him before you’ve paid me.” Then he entered the ring to a scattered cheer.

#

Smiling a wide, dimpled grin, the dark-haired circus barker swept his hat off to the ladies in the crowd with a wink, then shared a knowing smile with the gentlemen. 

The crowd grew steadily larger until his sales pitch ended and the sale of tickets began. A pretty girl dressed impeccably and implausibly as an Old West saloon girl passed out tickets in exchange for money, smiling at each customer. 

Heyes ducked back into the tent. Kid stood leaning against one of the poles that held up the circus tent, his arms crossed, gun belt tied down. He watched as Heyes’ smile disappeared. The dark-haired man put a hand against his back and stretched, grimacing a little.

“Done with your sales pitch, Heyes?”

Heyes nodded. “For now. Keep ‘em wanting more. Let ‘em talk about it among themselves. Spread the word better than me doing the talk all day long. They’ll come out of curiosity—to hear me again and to see the circus.”

He straightened and cast a dark-eyed, teasing look at Kid. “I hope you’re as good as I made you sound, Curry.”

Kid Curry snorted. “I’m better.”

“Hope so,” said the Heyes lightly, walking by.

#

Kid had to hand it to him: Heyes was a great announcer. When it was Kid Curry’s turn, Heyes did a superb job talking up the Kid to make him sound like the best gunfighter that had ever lived, instead of just another good trick shot who happened to work for a circus.

But when Kid Curry actually performed—stepping out into the ring in his borrowed western finery—well, even Heyes grew a measure of new respect in his eyes. Kid was fast, and he was deadly accurate. If he never had shot anybody, he certainly looked deadly enough when he pulled that gun, faster than the eye could follow. He could cut a playing card in half or light a match with a bullet. 

He felt himself entering that place where he could do no wrong, where the gun was an extension of his hand and power swirled around him like a wizard. 

His hands knew what to do. Sure, he’d practiced long enough, but even so, actually performing—it was always amazing. It was like he could see the crowd’s view of him the same time as he performed, their surprise with each new twist of shooting expertise. Experiencing it himself was one thing, experiencing it as well through the eyes of over a hundred people was something else entirely.

It could only last so long, though. Shooting was more exciting for adults than kids. Kids liked the tigers and horses, the tightrope walking and clowns, the people dressed like cowboys and “Indians” riding around, pretending to shoot each other. 

Even Kid, no connoisseur of art, had to cringe a little at that. He’d watched lots of Westerns growing up. Fact, that was one of the things that made him want to become a modern-day gunslinger (or trick shot). But even to his somewhat uncritical eye, the blonde Russian girl wearing lots of makeup and an extremely short, fringed leather skirt didn’t exactly look like an “Indian princess.”

After the show, amidst the hurried cleaning up (and being told to move his things and himself, rather pointedly, by the strongman), Kid was invited to eat with the couple who trained horses. They congratulated him on his good skills. They seemed like a nice couple—even went out of the way to gently hint that it might not be the best time to consider taking up cards. 

Several more people came up to congratulate him after supper, including the improbable Trixie. Maybe he’d be accepted here quickly, despite the strongman.

“You shoot real good,” Trixie said. 

He tried to untie his tongue and find something suitable to say. She was still wearing that short skirt; nothing came to him.

“You shoot a lot of blanks, yes?” She wore a huge smile. 

Kid felt himself flushing to the roots of his hair. “No, I shoot real bullets.” It came out strangled. She probably hadn’t meant to sound—like that had sounded. You had to be careful what you assumed from somebody who didn’t speak English as their first language. But she was still grinning at him, and he still didn’t know what else to say.

Hannibal Heyes stepped towards him, still resplendent and neatly arrayed in his ‘Western’ gear: cowboy boots, hat, leather jacket. He even wore dark gloves on his hands. Now he brought them together in a slow clap. Kid couldn’t tell if it was sincere or mocking, but Heyes’ face looked bright and pleasant.

“Wow, you really are a good shot,” said Heyes, dimpling his smile again. 

Trixie grinned at the sight of him, and walked away, shooting a laughing look back at Kid. Almost—a mocking look. Kid swallowed, and willed the telltale flush away.

“Don’t mind Trix,” said Heyes in a smiling undertone. “She likes to unsettle the new guys. She’s the kind of girl that don’t get along too well with other girls, and likes it best if guys fight over her. I just pretend not to notice.”

“She likes you well enough,” said Kid in a sort of croak. He got his voice back under control by clearing it.

Heyes shrugged modestly, as if it was only to be expected. “Enough about me. How about you? How’d you learn to shoot so young?”

“I’m older than I look,” said Kid, because it was true, and because he’d been saying it since he was fifteen and it really wasn’t. “What do you want, anyway?”

“I’m just trying to congratulate you on a well-played first act. You’ll be guaranteed a job here for a long time with those skills. Welcome to the circus.” He extended one neatly gloved hand.

Kid Curry looked down at it, then up at his face. Amusement touched his mouth. Reluctantly, he took the hand. “Pleased to meet you, too. Now that I’ve proved myself, you’ll talk to me, huh?”

“Well, I’m sorry, I was a bit busy earlier. Let me apologize for my bad manners. I wondered if you’d like to join a poker game to make up for it? It’s rather exclusive, but I’m sure I can get—”

“No thanks.” Kid fished in his pocket and dug out a toothpick. He began to chew it.

“You’re not interested?” Heyes smiled again, looking innocent and mildly friendly.

“I’m not interested in being shorn like a sheep.”

Heyes’ tongue flicked out briefly to touch his lips. “Kid, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He smiled, an uncertain-looking innocence mixed with confusion.

“Sure you do. You’re the resident card sharp, ain’t ya? And I’m the new guy, so I don’t know how good you are. Only I’ve talked to a few people already, and they said, ‘Watch out for Heyes. He’s good at cards. Real good.’”

“They did not,” said Heyes indignantly. “Sure, I like to play, I’ll admit, but I’m—”

“Real good. And no, maybe they didn’t say exactly, but I can read between the lines! When three or four people ask if you’ve invited me to play poker with you yet and drop hints to be careful, it don’t take a genius.”

Hannibal Heyes’ mouth shut and tightened. There was a flicker in his eyes, like a safe’s lock being spun, or a calculation being redone on the fly. “How about a friendly game, then? No money involved.”

Kid looked him straight in the face, studying the expression there. He saw a conman’s good looks, confidence, and artfulness under that innocent expression. He nodded. “Sure, why not? We’ll play for toothpicks.”

“And you can chew ‘em if you win.” Heyes gave him an impish, dimpled smile.

Kid found himself returning the smile. “I’m trying to quit smoking.”

“Oh, I wondered about that,” said Heyes. But something told Kid he hadn’t, he’d figured it out long ago, and that, too, was part of the mental file he’d made for Kid Curry. Only thing was, what kind of mark did Heyes think Kid was going to be?

_I’m too suspicious for him to fool. I’m too good at guns for him to really want to get on my bad side. Yet as soon as he saw me shoot, he wants to be buddies?_

The realization slowly bloomed inside Kid’s head. The conman wanted to move out of circus life—and onto something where he needed muscle. Kid would be the muscle, if Heyes could recruit him—charm him into it. Or maybe get him owing Heyes some money in a poker game….

Kid shook his head at the craftiness of Heyes. Well, if he knew what the conman circus barker was up to, he didn’t have to worry. If you knew which way the horse was gonna buck ahead of time, you didn’t have to see it happen.

He followed Heyes to the back of the tent, and a small table.

#

A couple of hours, a bottle of whiskey, and innumerable card games later, Heyes was still talking and dealing cards. He spoke with greater precision the more he drank, the casual “western” edge of his speech replaced by a more precise eastern accent.

Heyes’ sensitive-looking fingers unwrapped a pack of Marlboros. He put one in his mouth, holding it there casually while still talking around it, and then offered the pack to Kid. His gaze was very innocent indeed. 

Cautiously, Kid took a cigarette. Heyes reached across immediately with a flashy silver lighter and lit Kid’s, then his own. A look of faint satisfaction colored his dark, expressive eyes. 

Kid puffed warily. So, he wasn’t so good at quitting smoking. He’d try again tomorrow. Except he got awful irritable every time he quit. It was hard enough starting a new job.

As he thought these things, another part of his brain took note of every expression that passed over Heyes’ face. Kid’s head wasn’t as clear as it had been, but his instincts weren’t dulled; he kept note of some things. Heyes had a couple of tells for when he was bluffing, but Kid still wasn’t sure what they were. He just knew, every time, when Heyes was lying to him. It was like an instinct, the way he could tell when a man or horse or a bull was going to be a mean one. 

Kid was good at reading people. He’d absorbed it through his pores while watching out for his father’s temper, learning to read the early signs. It gave him an advantage in reading everybody else, too. 

The disadvantage was living with that constant tension he’d learned as a child. 

But despite his strong sense of people, he could hardly believe the way the conman seemed to be an open book to him. Surely it had to be some kind of trick.

At any rate, he grew convinced that at his most artless-looking, Heyes was likely to be lying or up to something. At his sneakiest-looking, at his most prosaic and bored, he was telling something close to the truth.

For the last half hour, he’d been spinning a yarn about how he got started at the circus. It had started out as total fabrication, just a con. Then, as Heyes drank, dealt hands, and loosened up, his story got closer to what must be the truth: that innocent look was gone. 

Kid watched with interest the rapid, expressive moods of the man. Heyes didn’t seem to know how NOT to smile. Must’ve practiced that a lot. Being a conman must take as much preparation and hard work as being a trick shot had taken Kid. 

He’d worked at it since he was a boy, spending hours on his family’s ranch shooting and trying to be like the imaginary Western heroes that he imagined and watched in old movies. They weren’t scared of anybody, and he had longed for that feeling of mastery and control. He snuck away whenever he could and enveloped himself in that imaginary world of safety. He’d gotten a BB gun for his sixth birthday. But even better for practice was when one of the ranch hands, Dave, would let him borrow a pistol….

And he’d gotten better and better. Till he was so good anybody who watched him got a shocked, amazed look in their eyes. Even his father, though the old man had tried not to let it show. 

Unfortunately, there really wasn’t much market for such skills anymore. He’d wasted his life, his father would say. He could be nothing but a travelling sideshow—or at best, find work in the movies. And there weren’t a lot of movies being made these days that required the gun talents like his, much less a young and unproven kid.

His mind wandered, addled with the whiskey he was finally old enough to drink legally but still unable to handle quantity-wise. It took a moment for him to register what Heyes had just said. Something alerted him that it was the truth, so he stared at Heyes till he could sort back to figure it out. 

“A couple of good heists?” he repeated, blinking.

“Yeah,” said Heyes. “A couple of good heists, and I could get out of the circus and carnival trade for good. The pay’s rotten, and you can go hoarse real easy. I’d like to get out, wouldn’t you?” There was The Smile again, trying to convince him of something.

Kid shook his head. “No, Heyes. I don’t think you could ever go hoarse, or that anything else would ever shut you up. And I don’t want to get out of the circus trade, leastwise not to go straight to jail.” He glared.

Heyes looked wounded and offended. “Kid, you don’t think I’d get you sent to jail? I’m too good at planning for that.”

“I do too think you’d get me sent to jail. What’s more, I bet you’ve been there yourself a time or two, even if you aren’t a day over twenty-five.”

“I most certainly _was not,_ ” said Heyes, looking highly affronted and very sincere.

Kid snorted, and took another sip of whiskey. “Now I know you were. That’s your lying face.”

For an instant, Heyes’ face flushed. He looked younger than Kid for a moment and mad as hell.

“You _were_ in jail, weren’t you?” asked Kid.

Heyes looked down at the cards, fumbling them momentarily with his dexterous fingers. He’d gone pale now. He looked up and his smile was brilliant and lying. “I got into some trouble when I was a kid. I never served any time.”

_Liar._

“Look, I don’t care either way,” said Kid, trying to back off from cornering the man but at the same time get his message through. “Just don’t try to get me involved. I’m gonna be in the movies someday.”

Heyes eyes widened slightly. This time Kid couldn’t tell whether it was a con or not. And he wondered where that announcement had come from. He’d never said that ambition out loud before, not to anybody. Hadn’t tried to act since he got stage fright and froze in the middle of the school play when he was nine.

The other kids had laughed so hard. Nobody could be an actor after that. Not and say lines. He hoped Heyes wouldn’t laugh, wouldn’t think he’d meant anything like saying lines. Just a stunt double, yeah. That was all somebody like Kid Curry could reasonably expect.

Heyes blinked at him, weighing it. He gave a little nod, and grinned. “Might work. You’ve got to work on the charm, but you’ve got the looks.”

“You’ve got the looks,” said Kid. “But you’d have to work on less charm. You’re too smooth, especially when you’re lying.” He took the deck of cards and began to shuffle.

Heyes stared at him. “Too smooth?” He took the cards back, reshuffled them with a fancy move that made Kid stare at his hands, and dealt in a slow, rhythmic pace. “Ace—king—ace—king—ace—king—ace—king,” he said and put down the deck. He flipped over Kid’s four cards (four kings), and his, four aces. “Was that too smooth?” A faint flush showed in his cheeks, and Kid saw the temporary unwariness of too much alcohol. Even Heyes, apparently, slipped up once in a while.

Kid grinned and pushed back his chair. “I’ll be turning in now, Heyes. Goodnight, conman.” He tipped his cowboy hat and turned away.

“Wait. I wasn’t cheating.” Heyes hurried after him. “Just showing you I could if I wanted to. I wasn’t—I don’t cheat.”

“Especially not for toothpicks, right?” said Kid sarcastically.

“I don’t.” Heyes sounded really hurt. Which probably meant he wasn’t.

“You ever tell the truth a day in your life, Heyes?” asked Kid in a bored voice, swinging round to stare at him.

A consternated expression greeted him. Had he caught Heyes by surprise for the first time? Or was this a trick, too?

Slowly, a rueful smile and a twinkle started in those dark eyes. “I admit, it’s been a while.”

“What I thought,” said Kid. He reached out a hand, for some reason he wasn’t sure of, and shook Heyes’ hand. “Pleased to meet you, Hannibal Heyes—for real this time.”

Heyes’ dimpled up and gave Kid a firm handshake. “You too, Kid Curry. I think this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” His innocent gaze twinkled at Kid. It held a naughty and teasing look, mixed with the question of whether Kid got the movie reference or not, and also, strangely, a desire to be liked. 

Was that what created a conman most of all? Kid smiled back in spite of himself. Perhaps that was the main question with conmen: did they want to be liked, or did they want to get one over on everyone else? Which did their lying stem from? Not that it mattered. He wasn’t getting sucked into any of this man’s plans. No, sir. Kid Curry needed honesty: honesty and dedication and people you could count on.

Except… he was in the circus now, wasn’t he? And if he wanted to get into show business—if his slip of the tongue told the truth—then he’d need someone tricky on his side, someone with the ability to talk anybody into anything and make them like it.

So, warily, he eyed Heyes, who smiled very, very innocently in return.

“Maybe,” conceded Kid. “I’m not saying yes and I’m not saying no.”

Heyes dimpled up. “Kid, that’s good enough for me!”

“But I ain’t helping you rob any banks.”

“Just taking Hollywood by storm, is that it?” 

“I ain’t sayin’ yes, and I ain’t—”

Heyes raised his hands. “I know, I know! Have another cigarette, Kid.” He retrieved his pack, tapped out a cigarette and waited for Kid to claim it. Then he leaned forward to light it. “I still think you’d be the perfect man for a bank robbery. Nobody’d suspect you at all. You got that innocent look about you….”

“I said I don’t want to hear it.” He took a deep drag on his cigarette and wondered why he’d let this man talk him into playing cards, sitting up half the night drinking, smoking, and now discussing robbery. “And I won’t be your friend if you keep it up,” he added, and only a moment later realized how that sounded. Like he was still nine, for pity’s sake.

Drunken Heyes only blinked at him, the gears working again. It was so obvious to Kid, though he wasn’t sure why. He could see through this man better than almost anybody he’d ever met, and they’d barely met each other.

“So what do you want to do? Really go to Hollywood?” said Heyes.

Kid shrugged. “Maybe.” He tried to look casual. “After all, that’s where the money is these days. Almost like highway robbery, what some actors… and stuntmen… and agents get.” He watched Heyes.

Heyes looked thoughtful and excited. His face was flushed from too much alcohol, but Kid could see his brain working furiously. “I never thought about that. Making money—legally—but—”

“But sort of crooked and sneaky all the same,” finished Kid.

Heyes smiled distractedly. “Yeah.” Then he glanced at Kid as though realizing what he’d just said. “I mean, it’s probably good, honest work, harder than anything I’ve ever done—”

“Cut the act. You’re good at schmoozing, ain’t ya? And talkin’ people into stuff? You could probably even sell me as an actor. Or yourself as one.”

Now Heyes was grinning so hard his face would probably be bruised for a week. “You think so?”

“I just said it, didn’t I? You need to stop being too theatrical, maybe take a few acting lessons….” 

“Maybe we could rob a bank to afford those lessons.” There was the hint of an honest question beneath the teasing, bright-eyed look.

Kid’s eyes narrowed. “No, Heyes.”

He shrugged. “Couldn’t hurt to try.” He cast Kid a sweet and humble smile, strangely mixed with cockiness and trickiness. The effect was surprisingly interesting, a glimpse of the real man and his tricky, slick surface all at once. “So we’ll talk about this more in the morning? Our plans?”

“Yeah,” said Kid. “Can’t hurt to talk. G’night.”

“G’night.” Hannibal Heyes reached out and very carefully, almost formally, shook Kid’s hand again. “See you tomorrow, Jedidiah Curry.” He gave a half bow from the waist, then turned and weaved away.

Kid stared after him, gaping. Now, how had Heyes learned his real first name? His mouth snapped shut. “Heyes!” Long, angry steps took him after the man. He grabbed Heyes’ arm and swung him round. “You burgled my bag!”

“I did not. I merely—peeked.” He bowed again, or tried to. Kid’s firm grip kept him upright.

“You don’t,” said Kid. “Ever. Mind your own business or I’ll—I’ll flatten ya.” Even now, his fist itched to do just that. This man was too slick for his own good. A couple of black eyes would teach him—

But even as he thought it, he recognized and felt ashamed by the way it reminded him of his father, this rush of anger making him threaten, intimidate, and raise a fist.

Heyes raised his hands. “Okay, okay. I won’t! Jedidiah ain’t such a bad name anyway. Why don’t you go by Jed, instead of Kid?”

“Kid’s a good stage name.” It sounded like he was sulking even in his own ears. 

Heyes gave him another Smile. “If you say so. Well, if you’ll excuse me.” He slid from Kid’s grasp, slippery as a snake. “I’ll just be catching some shut-eye.” He tilted his hat and smile strode away, only a little wobbly.

#

Kid dunked his head in under the faucet and groaned. He shouldn’t have. He really, really shouldn’t have had that whiskey with Heyes. He grimaced, imagining a maniacal grin on the smooth-faced bastard’s mouth, laughing at him while he got Kid to drink far, far too much. Yeah. This was his fault.

But when he saw Heyes, the older man looked worse for wear than Kid felt. He had dark circles under his eyes and looked like he was trying not to wince as he sipped his coffee. The sight made Kid feel automatically better. “Drank too much, Heyes?” he asked, loud enough to make his own head hurt. 

The reaction was all that he could’ve hoped. Heyes said “Aah!” and gripped his head with one hand. “Kid…” he implored.

Kid reached for his towel and smirked. At least if Heyes was really hurting, it made it less likely that last night had been a trick. The talk—or at least the drinking—had had something honest in it.

#

Somehow, both men pulled themselves together to do their jobs, Heyes even managing to sound like the same enthusiastic barker from yesterday, and when his time came to perform, Kid shot with just as much gusto and accuracy as he had last night. He gave two performances today, because he was here early enough to make it to the first show. 

When the day was over, Kid felt like one of the family. He was still sleeping in a borrowed bed and working in borrowed clothes under a tent in a strange town, but it no longer felt odd to him. With a growing feeling of ease, Kid realized he was at home with these people. Here there was no one out to get him, trying to find fault with him, or seeking to make him an enemy. Many of the people were really kind to him—such as the horse trainers, the Walkers. 

Even the conman Heyes Kid could read easily. With that realization came a security, a feeling of letting out his breath and finally unclenching something tight and anxious that had been holding its breath inside him.

With this new feeling, he said ‘yes’ when Heyes asked him if he wanted to go play some pool in town that night, after the shows were done and the cleanup as well.

“Why not?” said Kid Curry, provoking another smile from Heyes. He probably wanted someone to watch his back in case the local pool hall was less than welcoming, but Kid didn’t mind for once. It would be good to go out with someone and not have to worry about appearing as a lone target should anybody get rowdy. Not, he thought, that Heyes had a particularly intimidating appearance, but he had a certain air about him of one able to handle himself in trouble. Even if he was sometimes the cause of that trouble.

They took Heyes’ truck, a battered old, black Ford that took ages to start. “As you can see, I need a new vehicle,” said Heyes apologetically as they started off.

“Actually, I think better of you for havin’ a truck like this,” admitted Kid. 

“Oh? Why’s that?” Heyes glanced over as he drove. It took most of his attention, driving, and he wore a worried frown above his eyes, as if afraid the engine would die on him any second. It probably could.

“Means you don’t go around stealing cars.”

Heyes laughed, not entirely happily. “You don’t think much of me, do you?”

Kid shook his head.

“Well, that’s all right. I’ll earn your trust.”

“Not if you keep wanting me to help you steal stuff. Is this legit pool, or are you a hustler?”

“Kid, I’m not good at everything! I just want to relax and get out tonight. Don’t you?”

“Yeah,” said Kid. “That’s why I agreed to come along.”

#

They drove in silence the rest of the way, except for the engine, making low grumbling and growling sounds. 

The pool hall was lit with neon and busy with cracking balls, country music, glasses sliding on wooden tables, low voices and sometimes laughter. It was an atmosphere that set Kid on edge. He’d been to places like this, but not often. Seemed like the sort of place where you could get into a fight, some sixth sense warned him. It was that sense that told him when the atmosphere at home became dangerous: when his father would explode with little or no warning, or even anything legitimate to set him off.

He didn’t see any of the other circus people here, and that also made him think this wasn’t the right place for them.

“Heyes,” said Kid, low-voiced, tugging on his sleeve. “I think we should—”

Before he could finish, a large man strode forward. “Well well WELL. If it ain’t Mr. Bigmouth. Got a little friend with you this time, have you? Don’t look old enough to shave. Wanna see if you can repeat your little performance with the cue balls—this time for a larger wager?” He crossed thick arms. Small pig eyes glared at the two young men from his jowly, angry face.

“Now, Mr. Higgins, I hardly think that’s fair. It could’ve gone either way. I was just lucky. How about just a nice, friendly game tonight instead? No bets either way.”

“No way. You give me a chance to win my money back or you can just GIVE it back, right now.” The heavy man took a swing at Heyes, and Heyes leaped back—not quite fast enough. 

Kid braced himself, edging sideways as Heyes toppled. A loud scrap of wood: Heyes stumbled back against a stool, brandishing his fists. 

Kid could feel the other men in the room and a few women, all watching with varying degrees of interest and amusement. If he hit this man, and ended the fight, there might be some that would step forward to continue it. If he did nothing, Heyes—

 _He’s nobody to me. I should let him be hit,_ thought Kid, but at the same time his fist flung out and caught the man on the chin—enraging the bull, turning the man’s attention to Kid Curry.

Heyes, on the floor behind him, was rubbing his chin while Kid and the fat man circled each other. Kid knew with a sinking feeling why he’d attacked. Because he couldn’t stand to see a big bully hit anybody. Because of his father.

But now his anger was roused, and he’d have sooner backed off a cliff than backed off from this fight. The fat man’s rage blazed out, making him fast but unwary. Kid struggled to keep his temper and used his feet to go round and round, circling the man, looking for an opening. He found one at last, punched—connected—

And then found himself flat on his back, gasping for air. He’d lost his breath, the punch had been that hard and that quick.

Heyes was up now, circling, holding up his hands. “Can’t we talk about this? My friend and I were just looking for a friendly game. In fact, we’ve changed our minds. We’re just going…”

The big man didn’t even bother with words, just gave a deep growling yell and charged at Heyes. Still gasping for breath, Kid caught the fallen stool that had been in Heyes’ path, hooking a foot around one of its rungs. He flung it towards the big man. 

It connected with shins, and Higgins stumbled. He fell heavily. Higgins tried to catch himself on a table, but wasn’t quite close enough. Must’ve had a few drinks already. 

The bar’s natives looked on: laughed, applauded, and one looked ready to stand up and continue the fight. Since Fat Man was by no means down for the count and Kid didn’t want to play a game or buy a drink that bad, he judged it best to get out of here, quick. Plus that second man looked even meaner in a different way than Fat Man.

Kid gasped in a deep breath and tried to pull himself to his feet. “Let’s get out of here,” said Heyes in a low voice. He grabbed Kid’s forearm, yanked him to his feet, and both boys staggered towards the entrance.

They got through the swinging doors, followed by loud twangs of music and the raucous sounds of the patrons’ voices inside.

“Think they’ll follow us?” said Heyes, breathless and winded.

“Think your damn truck’ll start?” growled Kid in a weak gasp. He felt a fool for going with Heyes, his lungs ached, and his knuckles stung.

A few tense moments found the truck starting, and pulling slowly out onto the road.

“Sorry,” said Heyes. “Didn’t realize there’d be a drunk with a selective memory there.”

“You won money from him,” said Kid, his jaw tightening.

“He won some from me, too. Wasn’t such a sore loser, till he got a chance to brood.” Heyes suddenly exploded, “It ain’t fair, just because I’m not as big as he is!”

“That’s why you want me to be your pal?” said Kid. “Because you think I could intimidate your enemies with my gun?”

“Maybe if you’d brought it, you could’ve,” said Heyes. He seemed to think for a minute. “Yeah, I guess that is what I want. Seemed like it might be useful to get to know a gunfighter. But hell, Kid, you don’t have to sound so sulky. You don’t owe me anything, and you don’t have to be my ‘pal’ if you don’t want to. I do appreciate your help during the fight, though,” he added conscientiously.

Which con was this now? Heyes sounded world-weary and tired, and kinda—honest.

“I’m not sulky,” said Kid, sounding sulkier than ever. “And I didn’t fight him for you, I fought him because—” He shut his mouth with a snap, realizing what he’d been about to admit.

“Because why?”

“Never you mind why.”

#

Their plans, their big talk about going to Hollywood, had turned into nothing. They kept working. 

Kid kept to himself, and Heyes didn’t try to bridge the gap between them. He seemed to believe Kid wanted to end the fledgling friendship. That was fine with Kid. He didn’t like feeling suckered into anything. Better to leave things the way they were and not get too close to somebody who’d just end up hurting him or trying to use him. Likeable as Heyes was (and he was, Kid had to admit that to himself even if to no one else), Kid didn’t trust him as far as he could throw him.

Then one day Kid saw the big man—Higgins—from the pool hall standing at the entrance of the circus. He towered over Heyes, ominous, exuding danger.

Kid forgot he wasn’t Heyes’ friend and didn’t trust him. He found himself moving in that direction, jaw and hands clenched tight. “You got a problem here?” he demanded, looking at the man with mean, squinted eyes. They’d been known to intimidate people before, even people older and bigger than him. Sometimes he thought those eyes must contain all the anger he’d had to push down every day of his childhood. “We’re real peaceable here, we don’t take to brawling, but if you ain’t so peaceable…”

The man turned his attention to Kid. He glared and drew back a fist with the look of a man about to squash a bug. 

Kid moved fast. The blow missed him by a mile.

But it wasn’t aimed at him. It hit Heyes smack in the mouth. The dark-haired man stumbled back.

Kid surged forward, caught the big man from behind, twisting one hand back behind him. 

Heyes stood shaking his head and trying to catch his balance. Kid and the big man struggled for a minute. Then Heyes jumped in and caught his other arm and between them, they turned and propelled Higgins out fast enough that when they let go, he stumbled. He turned around, bright heat in his face, and fists raised. 

Kid and Heyes stood in the entrance, fists at the ready, faces hard. He glared at them, breath heaving like a horse. They stared him down.

He must’ve seen something he couldn’t fight very easily, because he hesitated. His fists looked impotent now, and he glowered and spat on the ground. 

“I’ll git my money back. One way or the other.” 

They watched him go, both radiating tension. Kid asked, without taking his eyes off the retreating figure, “How much did he win off you, anyway?” he called after Higgins.

“A hundred bucks,” said Heyes. He sniffed loudly, and Kid turned to see him bleeding from the mouth and nose. Higgins had only hit Heyes once, but he had a big fist that covered a lot of face.

“Something doesn’t make sense here,” said Kid. “Nobody gets that mad about a hundred bucks.”

Heyes shrugged and sniffed again, reaching for a handkerchief. “Right now I don’t give a damn what you think. Thanks for the help—couldn’t have acted a little sooner, could you?”

“Why, that’s the most grateful thank-you I’ve ever had,” said Kid. “Come on. Let me see.” He caught Heyes’ elbow to turn him round. Heyes jerked free, frowning, but turned anyway so Kid could see. Kid peered at his face and mouth, both bleeding, then drew back. “Aw, they’re not so bad. Quit whining.”

“I didn’t say a word.” Heyes sniffed again and pressing the once-white cloth against his face, he turned and walked away, his steps angry.

#

On the circle went. Circles of clowns, circles of gun barrels, barker calls circling over the same material time and again… over and over. The towns blurred into one another, each the same from the inside of the circus tent. (Popcorn, peanuts, sodas, cotton candy for sale….) It seemed like each town held the same kids and parents, and the teenagers (cynical but hoping they wouldn’t be bored), the same aching grandparents trying to give small children an exciting time and hoping it wouldn’t be too tiring for themselves, that the seats wouldn’t be too hard or the show too long or the children grow tired and cranky.

It was with a look of relief, and incredulous smiles, that they seemed to sink into the magic of the show. It gave Kid such a good feeling to know he was part of it, to hear the gasps of awe and the cheers when he did one of his tricks. It made him momentarily feel like the most powerful man in the world. 

He still practiced, knew he needed to hone his skills, stay sharp, especially since his one-time hobby was now feeding him. He practiced in most of his spare time when he wasn’t eating, sleeping, or helping around the circus. 

Sometimes, he had an audience even for this. When he found somewhere that seemed real quiet, people were still just as likely as not to come around and watch. Most of the time, he’d find a gun range and get permission to practice there, or ask a farmer and make sure it was a safe place with no one too close. 

But sometimes he couldn’t find anywhere to practice. He’d get an antsy feeling in his hands, a kind of itch on his palms. It was worse when things got stressful: when he worried about losing his skills or felt stressed from dealing with people (especially older men) in this sometimes claustrophobic, disconnected life in the circus.

Kid kept an eye on Heyes, though they mostly weren’t even on talking terms anymore.

Heyes seemed to have the knack of making himself look older or younger as he wished. Kid admired that, wished he could. He was twenty-one, and had been working in circus acts just long enough to know it could be a real tough life.

Then one day it got tougher. 

The clown with the spare bunk was leaving for greener shores. He had a friend who knew of a better job for him. He offered Kid the opportunity to come along, but Kid said no thanks. At least he’d proven he could get along with Lom and the other circus people here.

However, his pay wasn’t enough to buy his own trailer yet, and there weren’t a lot of beds going free around the encampment. 

When Lom suggested he bunk with Heyes, Kid decided he was quite ready to spend the night sleeping in a lumpy bedroll instead.

“No, thanks,” he said coolly. “I’ll sleep in my truck.”

Lom looked at him—a little closer than Kid liked. He felt himself reddening and growing defensive under that level gaze. 

“You didn’t have a problem sharing with the clown. Is there some conflict here I need to know about?”

“No. We just don’t get along that great.”

“Seems you got along well enough early on,” said Lom, still watching him too closely.

Kid felt himself redden further. Damn his fair skin! It showed every blush. He shrugged, gone incoherent. All his Power Words were good for nothing here. If Lom wanted to kick him out, he would and there wasn’t a thing Kid could do about it.

Lom glanced down at his paper. “Well, I won’t have such things in my circus. You’ll bunk with him, and you’ll get along, or one of you will be out.”

Kid stared at him, jaw tightening painfully. He felt his hands twitch, his right towards his gun, his left into a fist. Neither should ever happen because of something a boss said. But right now he hated Lom. One of them should go indeed—that would be Kid, because he was new (even though he drew the crowds), because he wasn’t the smooth-talking, insinuating, lying bastard that could make people see things his own way. It would be Kid who left (and who didn’t want to go), unless he could get along with Heyes.

He arrived at Heyes’ trailer that evening with his bag slung over his shoulder. He dropped them wrathfully on the ground and glared at Heyes. 

Heyes, who had been leaning against his caravan watching Kid approach, straightened when Kid drew near. He put on a half a smile so he was friendly-looking. When he saw the way Kid dropped the bags, the smile disappeared.

“You really hate me, huh, Kid?”

“Yes,” said Kid.

He hadn’t meant to say it. It was just more of his anger spilling out. But he felt a curious mixture of glee and regret when he saw the pain cross Heyes’ face. His words had cut him, somehow, and he hadn’t realized he’d had that power.

“Don’t mean it,” he grunted a moment later. “Just don’t like having to share.” He shouldered past Heyes into the claustrophobic little trailer. Its aging insides were decorated with a bunk, and a few old posters plastered along the walls, and a mix of necessities and aging furniture that didn’t seem unfamiliar to Kid, but that made Heyes seem poorer than he’d have expected.

“You shared with the damn clown,” said Heyes, following him. He placed himself in front of Kid when Kid started towards the bunk. Heyes crossed his arms and looked at Kid, chin raised, eyes dark and snapping with anger. “Just what is your problem with me?”

Kid’s hands clenched. He could knock Heyes on the chin, right now, and probably not take a punch in return. Conmen weren’t usually good fighters. But—Lom. Would kick him out. So instead he used his Word Power.

“I don’t like being lied to.”

“I don’t—I didn’t—”

“YOU SAID WE WERE GOING TO CALIFORNIA!”

Heyes shut up and blinked at him, dark lashes fluttering above a clueless, smooth face that looked thoroughly confused. “But you said nothing more about that. You—didn’t want anything to do with me.” He shrugged. “So I figured it was the drink talking.”

Kid shoved past him, avoiding Heyes’ gaze now, feeling sulky and ridiculous for being hurt and angry. The feeling had remained, he now realized, with or without reason. Heyes had brought the pipe dream to his attention, helped him be foolish enough to admit he wanted to reach for it, and then—nothing. He felt like his hopes had been raised, then dashed. He’d figured Heyes did it just to laugh at him behind his back, with those conman smiles of his.

But in the glimpse of Heyes’ bewilderment, he’d seen a different story. Heyes had been adjusting himself, as he probably often did, to different goals and plans: possibilities. When he’d seen a stubborn Kid Curry in the morning, he’d written off that drunken plan for a new life, mentally shrugged, and prepared to start again as friends, or at least acquaintances, by asking Kid to go to the bar with him.

And Kid had held a grudge. 

He’d been doing an awful lot of that. He was getting damn good at it. Or bad at it.

Ashamed of himself, but unwilling to ever admit it, Kid busied himself claiming the bottom bunk, stowing his gear beneath it, and pulling off his cowboy boots.

He pointed at the bags. “Mine. Don’t touch ‘em.”

Heyes still didn’t say anything. 

“What?” snapped Kid in exasperation, and finally whirled to glare at him. 

Heyes’ eyes were dancing with amusement, his mobile mouth twitching and quirking up at the edges.

“You—you don’t mind the idea of travelling across country with me, trusting me as—as your manager, Kid…” He was keeping his voice steady with obvious effort, but Kid could hear the near laugh just under the surface. “But you don’t trust me to share a bunk. You—you’re afraid I’ll touch—your—stuff.”

Kid fought back a sudden mental vision of pushing Heyes’ face in, breaking his nose, blood everywhere. He didn’t LIKE being laughed at! Instead, he opened one of his hands deliberately and put it on Heyes’ shoulder and pushed.

Like he’d expected, the quick and deliberate move unbalanced the conman and scared a little of his laugh away. 

Heyes caught himself before he could fall, but his eyes were wary now. Despite being older than Kid, he was a just little smaller. But the real difference lay somewhere else: Kid’s rock-hard muscles from years of ranch labor since he was real young. Or perhaps in Heyes’ caution. Because he did have a cautious streak, despite everything. He might as well be watching over his shoulder constantly, the way he acted. As if—

Oh.

“You’re wanted, ain’t you?” asked Kid abruptly.

Heyes looked highly offended. “I am not! I’m insulted, Kid!”

Kid shrugged and turned away again.

A hand grabbed his arm to turn him round. “Hey! I am not!” croaked Heyes. The last word came out strangled. Kid had grabbed hold of his hand and whirled and wrenched Heyes against the wall.

It was an automatic reaction. He didn’t like to be touched, and he didn’t like to be pushed. Heyes had been (perhaps unintentionally) pushing him for a while now. And now he’d tried to turn him round too, and Kid snapped. 

He had Heyes securely pinned, and the other man knew it. Heyes stayed very still so he could keep breathing without getting his air cut off. 

But something in his eyes had changed. He was frightened—really frightened in a way he hadn’t been since Kid met him. Those dark eyes held a feral, sick fear and a cunning determination to use whatever he could to get away, to survive. His eyes focused on Kid as though he were the most important person in the world, because if Heyes couldn’t outwit him, he’d—

Kid knew. Die, or be beaten within an inch of it, or be raped. It was an automatic reaction, that fear, that feral look, and not something you could fake. Heyes had been in a situation—at least once—where that possibility was true. The terror in those expressive eyes made Kid’s anger flee. Deeply embarrassed and ashamed to have caused it, he released Heyes instantly and stepped back.

Heyes’ fist came up automatically as he stepped towards Kid and caught him on the chin. Kid jerked his chin back and it rang a little, but he avoided most of the blow.

The rest seemed to happen in slow motion. Heyes kicked out at him. The trailer, not very big, rocked with the wild motion. Heyes barked Kid’s shin, but Kid threw a punch back at him and grabbed his arm—outstretched from a punch—and pulled him and tossed him onto the bed.

Heyes landed rumpled and like a wildcat ready to spring up. 

Kid backed away, raising his hands, holding them up, but still crouched, ready for the fight to continue. _Think it through, Heyes._

For a moment, Heyes waited. They both seemed to have frozen. Color heated Heyes’ cheeks, and he was breathing hard. But he was getting control, reassessing the situation and Kid’s threat risk. 

What he saw seemed to reassure him, because a lot of the tension left him. He climbed to his feet again, still regarding Kid coldly and warily but now with most of that fight-or-flight reaction gone. He looked cynical, older and somehow younger all at once. Like a boy who’s seen too much and doesn’t believe things will ever be okay again.

And Kid, for all his clumsy way with words, understood. He understood because he could read people. And he could especially read Heyes. Heyes’ fear came from his time in jail. Kid knew more than he wanted to already. 

Heyes had trusted him because he’d helped Heyes in a fight—in two fights—but now he was reassessing that trust. And Kid had to get it back, quick and smooth like nothing had happened. 

He had to get it back because this scene had scared him. He didn’t like to think of himself as violent, or the kind of person who could inspire—terror.

“How ‘bout this. You don’t lay a hand on me and I don’t lay a hand on you, deal?”

Heyes nodded with alacrity. Another new word, which Kid didn’t know how to pronounce yet. 

Heyes’ features looked pinched, both relieved and starting to get angry again because Kid had seen his weakness this way. 

It needed more. “My dad,” croaked Kid. He voice sounded funny as he said it, his throat dry. It hurt to tell this. “He gave out lots of whippings. I don’t like to be touched sudden-like.” 

Again, Heyes nodded. He looked bone-weary now. He closed his eyes for a second, then opened them and stood to lean against the bunk bonelessly. He ran a hand back through dark, straight hair. “I could use a cigarette.”

“Me too,” said Kid, relaxing subtly.

They smoked in silence, an awkward closeness in the too-small trailer, filling it with smoke, not daring to talk to or look at one another. Heyes smoked as though he needed it. Kid sat down warily on a flimsy metal folding chair that creaked.

“You really want to go to California?” asked Heyes, risking a glance in his direction. Kid could see Heyes had gained back his control and was trying to get on an even keel as quickly as possible; also that he was highly curious.

Kid shrugged. “I want to do somethin’ with my life.”

“You’re doing something,” pointed out Heyes. “You’re a star already.”

Kid frowned. It wasn’t what he meant, exactly. “Something my dad would see and have to respect. But I want it to be something I like, too, something with guns.”

“I see. And he’d respect acting?”

Kid glowered. “No.” He looked down at his cowboy boots, scuffed them on the aged floor, and looked up again. “Not unless I made a lot of money and he couldn’t ignore me!”

Heyes was watching him with interest, all trace of his earlier fear gone now. He looked almost friendly, engaged. “How old are you really, Kid? And why don’t you let me call you Jed? It’s a better name—more Western-y.”

“Kid’s more Western-y,” said Kid Curry. “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. That’s me.” He pointed a thumb at his chest.

Heyes snorted; it made smoke come out his nose. “Does that make me Butch?”

Kid glared at him. “Only if we’re partners. But yeah, you got the silver tongue. Got enough plans, too, as far as I can see.”

“So you still ain’t answered my question, Kid. You want to go to California?”

“Sometimes. And then sometimes I don’t.”

Heyes looked at him and smiled. “Well, when you make up your mind, let me know. Maybe I’ll wanna go, too.”

Kid found himself smiling a bit shakily and nodding. Maybe he could stand this guy after all. Especially since Heyes hadn’t been ignoring him or laughing at him all this time.

#

It took time to develop a comfortable rapport, staying with Heyes. Things were calmer between them, but there was hesitancy and a polite, stranger-like distance. When Heyes emerged from the shower, wearing plaid pajamas and scrubbing his hair with a towel, he apologized for taking so long and told Kid he could shower first next time, if he wanted.

“That’s all right,” said Kid, equally polite, and tiptoed and tried to keep real quiet when he got up early and left the camper to practice shooting. He’d gotten up early every day since he was very small, helping with chores around the ranch. It just felt wrong to lie abed while there was daylight or near-daylight outside.

Sometimes he snuck a peek at Heyes before he left, and almost smiled. The sleeping conman looked innocent and younger. His mouth might be slightly open, so you could hear an almost-snore from him. It was weird to see him lying in rumpled bedclothes on the top bunk, wordless for once and not scheming. Kid always the door quietly behind him, careful so it would catch.

#

One night they got drunk and silly together. Heyes started rhyming things eloquently, standing up (or trying to) on top of his folding chair, waving his hands around like an orator. 

Somehow or other, Kid had told him about Word Power and trying to improve his vocabulary, and Heyes had taken that and ran. With a copy of one of Kid’s old Reader’s Digests in one hand, he waved the other and tried to work all the words into a dirty limerick in iambic pentameter. Kid was pretty sure he was failing, but since he wouldn’t know an iambic if it bit him, he couldn’t convince Heyes of it.

But when Heyes stumbled and started to fall, Kid retained enough whiskey-befogged wits to jump up and catch him. 

Heyes blinked at him in a scattered way. His eyelashes were long and his face was smooth and stupid with drink, the laugh disappearing after he’d nearly fallen. He was heavier than Kid had expected. 

Kid put Heyes down, said, “Quit monkeying around,” and then cleared his throat. He turned away and reached for his glass to cover his surprise. For a second there, it had felt nice to put his arms around Heyes. And for a second, he’d wanted to squeeze him tighter instead of putting him down. 

It was a scary feeling, to want to shut someone up and keep them close all at once, and to both be disgusted and annoyed by Heyes and feel hopelessly fond of him. He wanted to take a poke at him; he wanted to wrestle him and rub his face in the snow; he wanted to wrap his arms around Heyes and hold him tight. 

It was the drink. He didn’t want to get that close to anybody—even a girl. Not really close. If you did, they could hurt you. People DID hurt you. If there was one thing Kid had learned in his life thus far, it was that: people hurt you, so be wary.

Heyes had learned it too. He understood this about his new friend, because they were a lot alike—and because he could still see straight through Heyes, all his shiftiness and sweetness and his high spirits and low. 

Heyes didn’t seem to feel like finishing his verse anymore. He sat down on his creaky chair and cleared his throat, then said in a voice deeper than normal, “So, Kid, how ‘bout them Yankees?”

Kid turned to blink at him, brow wrinkling. 

He met the full force of Heyes’ twinkling eyes. Heyes tried to hold back a grin unsuccessfully. First one dimple peeked out, then the second. He was laughing and trying not to, and Kid couldn’t help smiling back.

“You’re nuts,” said Kid, and reached over and mussed Heyes’ hair. Heyes reached over and gave him a punch on the arm.

#

 

“You ever been bull riding, Heyes?” asked Kid, nodding towards the fence and heading that way. They both wore their cowboy hats and boots with jeans and white-t-shirts. 

Kid wore a flannel shirt over his because he burned easy and it was a hot, sunny day, but Heyes had bare arms, and his shirt was tight and sleeveless, ribbed and pure white. He looked good in it with his black hat and good physique and the way he walked confident and catlike. 

Kid saw a few girls casting sidelong, smiling glances in their direction, but he hadn’t said anything about trying to pick up any dates; Heyes was getting most of the looks, and Kid wasn’t in competition with his friend. It didn’t sit right, because he knew he wasn’t ugly. In fact, he was pretty damn handsome, but he looked awkward and gawky and too pale stacked up against the smiling, genial conman Heyes with his dark eyes and his slick ways, his handsome hair and most of all, his dimples.

It made Kid angry in a way he couldn’t explain, a frustrated feeling down inside, like he’d always be second best, never quite good enough. It was for this reason he didn’t like double dating with Heyes, though he enjoyed very much doing other things with him—like they were doing now, walking and checking out the carnival atmosphere of the rodeo. They were too busy to get away often, working for the circus; but today they had a few minutes and the circus was luckily set up near this rodeo.

Kid realized he had missed it. The rodeo had a certain smell, a certain excited feel to it that you couldn’t get just anywhere. It reminded him of home and the ranch. Lots of animals you could trust, even if it was just trust them to be rowdy and try to throw you. Their smell enveloped the atmosphere, along with sweat and serious, hard-working men in flannel, boots, jeans. It made him feel safe, like he was back on the ranch, hard at work with laconic men who said little but worked hard, and didn’t harangue or beat on him like his dad. They left him alone; except for the occasional man who’d help him, teach him something. Like Dave.

Those experiences had been gold to Kid, helped him perfect the things he needed to survive in life: riding, shooting, caring for and working with animals. He’d needed to be strong to survive, do all the work his father demanded of him, and make it out as soon as he had. There had been a lot about that life he hated, but a lot he loved as well.

Now he’d asked Heyes if he’d ever been bull riding with that same nostalgic feeling washing over him.

Heyes joined him, standing with one boot on the bottom rung of a fence, arms leaned on top of it. They watched the setup. Not far from them, a bull (big, reddish, mean-looking) was getting rowdy in his chute. A couple of handlers were nearby, but the rider wasn’t there yet, hadn’t climbed on. 

Heyes cast him a weighing glance and a smile, squinting in the bright sunlight even beneath his black brim. “No, but you have, haven’t you?”

Kid smiled. “And what makes you say that?” he asked, to draw Heyes out. He felt lazy and friendly in the sun (at least when he didn’t notice all the girls staring only at Heyes!).

“You seem nostalgic,” said Heyes, smiling. “I like it. So… you’ve been bull riding a lot, or just once or twice?” His eyes crinkled up at the edges when he smiled.

“Some,” said Kid. “It’s hard work for the money you get—hard on the bones. I stopped as soon as I could get people to pay me for shootin’ instead.” He fell silent, thinking of how he’d enjoyed being the center of attention riding bulls, facing his fear and excitement. But he’d found better ways.

“One thing I liked about it was nobody thought you were stupid. Everbody’s in the same boat. It only matters if you’re good at what you do, not whether you have a stupid piece of paper that says you made it through twelve grades.” He realized Heyes was watching him with a sharpened gaze and turned to face him. “What?”

“You never graduated?”

“Oh, I suppose you did?”

Heyes showed his dimples. “Sure I did! Didn’t always do my own work, but I graduated.”

“You’re smart enough to do your own work.” Kid turned back to stare at the bull, admiring the animal’s strong, sturdy lines and his spirit. 

“Oh, and you’re not? Mr. Word Power?” Heyes nudged him with an elbow.

“You don’t understand.” Kid kept his gaze squinted on the bull, not looking at Heyes. He realized he wanted to say this; he wanted to tell Heyes these things. Because he never had told anybody, not really. He’d kept it locked inside, like the other things he was bitter about. Never being good enough. Never having the kind of father he wanted, the kind who’d be proud of him and stick up for him if he needed it, instead of beating him down and only finding fault.

“What don’t I understand?” asked Heyes in a light, soft voice. He was listening or pretending to; he was good at making people believe stuff, but this time, Kid thought he actually meant it. He could still read Heyes pretty good even without looking at him.

“Every other job I’ve held was easy compared to working for my dad.” 

He took a deep, shaky breath and sighed it out again. “I worked for him since I was five years old. He begrudged every hour of school. My dad never gave a damn. He wanted me to work for him, to work hard and not play around with books. I worked before and after school, till dark. I didn’t have time to do homework. God help me if I got sick. I was so tired… never had time to play, like regular kids.” 

He swallowed hard and glanced over at his friend. “I got strong, Heyes, but I paid for it. I ain’t dumb, but I never did good in school, so I thought I was. I felt stupid and got called stupid. But nobody beat me in a fight. I was too strong from all that work.” 

Beyond the fence, he watched the bull rider: bounce, bounce, fly… and the bull leap and writhe away, victorious.

Heyes was watching him, close and expressionless but somehow sympathetic, too, listening hard and not interrupting.

“When I got a little older, I could work faster. I’d steal minutes to practice shooting or watch these old Western movies. I liked ‘em. I probably coulda made more time for school, but by then I’d given up on school. Thought I was too stupid.”

Heyes stirred. Kid glanced over and saw he was frowning, hard. “But you love to learn. You’re always reading something.”

Kid nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I got to liking it. After I ran away from home, at my first job, I—” He shrugged, suddenly embarrassed. “I got ahold of a book, and I’d read it when I got to feeling sad and homesick. It was a Western; like the movies I’d watched but different.” He paused. “I read it twice, puzzling out the words I didn’t understand.”

He shrugged. “And I got to thinking if I could enjoy novels, I wasn’t stupid. I could learn things. I could learn big words and things everybody else knew and took for granted. 

He grinned at the memory of discovering he could learn things if he wanted to, after all. “I picked up old newspapers and read ‘em, got hold of books whenever I could. I couldn’t sign up for a library, so I’d buy ‘em. Lots of places have books, if you know where to look: at places that sell used clothes, old junk, yard sales and library sales. 

“And then I discovered Reader’s Digest! I got a whole stack of them for two dollars. Some were moldy. Most of ‘em were ten or twenty years old, but they all had a section for learning new words. I’d study ‘em and test myself on it, and—I did pretty good. Like I said, none of my jobs were as hard as working for my dad, so I had more time, and more—more brain…more thoughts to spare. Like I can think now, you know? Can study, instead of just trying to work hard enough and stay out of my dad’s way and watch out for his temper.”

Heyes stared at him, absorbing this. “Weren’t there any teachers who told you how much potential you had? Nothing like that?”

Kid shook his head. He dared a glance at Heyes, noticing his friend’s frown of indignation on his behalf. “A couple of the ranch hands would help me with stuff like roping cattle, riding, shooting, that kind of thing. No teachers ever really bothered about me. I wasn’t obviously needy. I mean, I got enough to eat, I was big for my age and strong. I just seemed… dumb.”

“And yet you’re far from dumb.” Heyes snorted. “I couldn’t get through a week at school without someone telling me how much potential I had and how I wasn’t living up to it!”

_Must’ve been nice._

“This is all very interesting,” said Heyes, turning to face his friend more straight on, not even pretending to look at the bull riding now. “But what does it have to do with bull riding?”

“Oh. That was my second job when I got out.”

“Got out? You make it sound like your home was a jail.”

“To me it was.” 

#

One day they were at a bar that didn’t seem too dangerous. The background seemed settled. People minded their own business. 

Kid must’ve let down his guard, because nothing bad had happened lately. He was getting along with Heyes and everybody at the circus, the work was good and the pay was steady.

Now he was having a drink, talking to Heyes, when somebody bumped into him. Kid’s drink sloshed over his good shirt, and he put down what was left of the drink on the counter. He turned with narrowed eyes on the man with a beer-belly, thick arms, and thinning hair who’d bumped him.

“Watch yourself,” he snapped. 

Heyes’ hand gripped Kid’s arm tightly. Heyes was always anxious to keep out of trouble, out of fights. He’d rather talk his way out of it than anything.

But that wasn’t Kid’s way. He wasn’t good at talking his way out of things. He was, however, good at getting mad, and quick. He shook off Heyes and glared at the stranger.

“Watch yourself, kid,” slurred an angry voice. The man gave him another shove.

Kid shoved him back. 

The big man threw a punch and the next thing Kid knew, his attacker was lying on the floor, Kid’s fist was ringing, and he was staring down at a man clutching his chest and moaning.

“Alls I did was hit him once!” Kid cast Heyes a frantic look. 

Somebody was dialing for 911. Somebody else bent down to check the man. “I think he’s having a heart attack!”

“Kid, we gotta go.” Heyes tugged on his sleeve urgently. 

“But I didn’t mean to—” He threw one agonizing look back at the man who lay dreadfully still. He—he couldn’t have, not with just one punch. Besides that guy had punched him first. Kid hadn’t hit him all that hard. Had he? 

How hard was it to gauge your own strength, especially when you’d been working on a farm since you were five years old? 

What if Kid had killed him?

Then he was following Heyes, past the confusion and the censorious gazes of a few patrons who bothered to notice. 

“Keep your hat down.” Heyes adjusted his own, walking confidently and silently, escaping the busy and confused scene with ease. “C’mon, Kid, hurry,” he whispered, the tension in his words at odds with his calm walk.

They got in Kid’s truck and drove away, belching smoke. “We’ll have to dump the truck. Somebody’s bound to have seen the license and know what it looks like.”

“We can sell it,” said Kid dully. Heyes was driving, taking charge while Kid was in a daze. They bounced over the rutted back roads and passed the ambulance on its way in.

“What if he’s dead?”

“Manslaughter—aggravated assault. Somebody will back your story up. But it won’t be me.”

Kid turned to look at his friend, aghast. “Heyes? What are you talking about? You were there. You saw it. You can vouch for me.” 

Heyes might be the only one who would. To everyone else, they were strangers, and the—the heart attack man was a regular. In a twisted version of real events, people who had probably only been halfway paying attention would suddenly remember that Kid had been the proddy one, had attacked an older man without cause (a man who’d only bumped into him) and then he’d run.

Damn, he had run. He’d look even guiltier now. And the man had stopped moving….

“They’ll be after me,” said Kid. “I’ve gotta run. I’m not getting locked up.”

“Might only get a year or two with a good defense,” said Heyes.

“Yeah, but you won’t testify.” Kid’s voice was heavy with sarcasm, but he thought he already knew why. 

“Kid, I can’t.”

“It’s ‘cuz you’re wanted, ain’t it?”

Heyes bit his lip—and reluctantly nodded. “If they took my name, they’d—they’d find out I’m wanted. In Kansas. Not for anything too bad,” he reassured Kid.

“Well, that’s a relief,” said Kid with even heavier sarcasm. “Wouldn’t want to travel with a criminal or anything.”

Heyes cast him a quick look. “Travel? You gonna run?”

Kid’s mouth tightened. “Looks like I don’t have much choice.” He didn’t want to end up in jail, and he knew enough about working under the table. He could survive on the lam, at least for a while. 

“Good,” said Heyes, with a sigh of relief. “We’ll go together. Let’s get my truck, and head out.”

“We’ll have to sell ‘em both and get new ones,” warned Kid. With Heyes’ silver tongue, they should last even longer. “They’ll figure out it was us soon enough.”

“Yeah, probably be best,” agreed Heyes. He sounded more cheerful now that a plan was in motion. “I have a little money saved up, but not much. You got any?”

“No,” said Kid.

“I guess we could rob a b—”

“Shut up, Heyes!”

#

The sun shone watery, pale in the barely-dawn morning. Kid cracked a huge yawn, scraped his hand back through his hair and scratched at his scalp. He needed a shower. He needed a hot cup of coffee. He needed a lot of things, and they were things you didn’t get on the lam.

After leaving the circus with their quickly-gathered gear, he and Heyes had stopped only when they needed gas. They drove till they were two states away. 

Both had been hungry and thirsty by the time they stopped, gummy-eyed and cranky. Kid’s guts had been knotting in hunger and stress till he felt like his guts were a black hole. He was hollow inside, something more than hunger, a terrible, ravenous beast pulling him apart inside.

They’d traded off driving and dozing, jumpy and determined, carefully following speed limits except on the real deserted roads. Kid was a good driver. Heyes was, too. They hadn’t kept Kid’s vehicle, but they’d taken Heyes’. 

They’d parked on the side of the road off the beaten track after they finally talked themselves into stopping for fast food and more water bottles. They’d taken some food and water with them, along with all their money and some clothes, thrown hastily together before leaving the circus. But being in the sun in a ratty vehicle showed the seedy side of this life pretty quick. Neither of them smelled too good, they’d both had blood-shot eyes, got hungry and thirsty, and started snapping at each other.

Finally, last night they’d stopped, unrolled sleeping bags and slept in the bed of the truck. It was smoother than the lumpy ground here, and less likely to draw snakes.

Heyes had growled at him to stay on his side of the truck bed, looking downright mean and nasty with his bloodshot eyes and his days’-worth of beard growth.

Kid had snarled something rude back—though he couldn’t remember what now—and slept like the dead.

#

After that their hard life began. They were both too jumpy and wary to want to risk finding out how closely the law was pursuing them. Every time they heard sirens, Heyes jumped, Kid’s shoulders and jaw tightened painfully. 

Running from the law was much the way it had been running from his father. If he was caught, it would mean pain, humiliation, and his freedom taken away again. Sometimes it felt like he was running from both the law and his dad. Like he was just running, reason gone.

At night, bundled in sleeping bags, Heyes’ voice followed the rabbit trails of Kid’s own fears and paranoias: “They could be checkin’ security cameras, Kid. We should be wearing hats when we go into stores.” Or: “Did you think that farmer looked at you funny today? Maybe we should move on, not finish the job for him after all.”

Sometimes Kid grunted. Sometimes he rolled over and ignored Heyes and tried to sleep. But most of the time he agreed: they had to be more careful.

Feral: reverted to the wild.

That was one of his Power Words, and he thought of it when he looked at Heyes sometimes, or glimpsed himself in the chrome of a bumper, reflected in the truck’s cracked mirrors or an age-stained gas station mirror. No wonder they were getting funny looks. They looked jittery, on edge: men leading hard lives on the edge, running and afraid to look back.

Sometimes he wondered what they were running from most of all, their personal pasts or the law. 

#

They were side by side in their sleeping bags. Heyes stared up at the stars, hands crossed behind his head. He smelled bad; even from here, he smelled bad. 

Kid remembered the last time they’d got to wash properly: three days ago, taking turns in the rusty barn shower. Heyes was surprisingly shy, showering faster than he had to, then grabbing his towel close to himself, hurrying away on bare feet, getting dirty again from the barn floor, so Kid could take his turn. Now he smelled as bad again as if he hadn’t bathed in a month. Kid knew he was no better-smelling.

Now staring at the stars, Heyes spoke quietly. “Maybe we should call Lom, see what’s going on.” He made it casual, but Kid could hear it in his voice: he wanted to go back.

In response to Heyes’ hint, Kid snorted loudly. “You want to give them a number to trace?”

“Lom wouldn’t turn us in.” Heyes sounded like he wanted to believe that, but not like he actually did.

“You call him, you let me get a head start first.” Kid had visions of a SWAT-like team zeroing in on them, like on the TV shows. _We traced his call! Mobilize the unit! We’ve got them, sir._

“I don’t want to split. We need to watch each other’s back. I just meant we could see how it stands. Maybe he’d tell us how close they are. Hell, maybe that guy even survived, ever think of that?”

Kid did think of that. Every damn day. “Look, I just don’t see a way we can find out without risking it. You wanna risk it?”

Heyes was silent. 

Kid rolled over on his shoulder. It hurt. All his muscles hurt; it had been a hard day of stacking hay and mending fences for a far too low, under-the-table payment. He was used to that.

Apparently Heyes wasn’t.

“I ain’t cut out for this life, Kid.” 

Kid lay still, holding his breath. 

“I’m not made of iron the way you are, Kid. This is the hardest work I’ve ever done. I’m so damn weary, some days jail looks good. I could rest on a bed, there. And you know how I feel about jail.” This he said real low; it was the only reference he’d made to jail since the day Kid guessed.

Kid swallowed, hard. “So, you’re going back?” Why did that feel like betrayal? They were hardly even friends. 

Why should he care what Heyes did with his life? He was a loser anyway. “Fine. Don’t turn me in.” His mouth had a bitter twist to it and he closed his eyes against the big, wilderness-bright stars.

“Kid.” Heyes said the word like a sigh, like surrender. “I said I didn’t want to split, didn’t I? But we have to figure something out. I can’t live like this forever.”

Kid breathed again. The fierce, hurt, angry, rejected feelings abated. “Okay. Use your head. Think of something. I’ll back you up. But I don’t trust Lom and I don’t wanna go to jail.”

“Well, I don’t want to try bull-riding, so we’re even.”

The conversation petered out; they had more to say, more to figure out, but they didn’t know what it was.

#

The wheels must’ve picked their direction on their own: Kid certainly hadn’t consciously picked this direction. In fact, if asked, he’d have said he wanted to go any which way but his hometown.

Yet somehow they ended up here, and Kid had been driving. He glanced at Heyes, looking to see if he’d figured it out. Kid was sure it must show on his face: the guilt, the anxiety, the fact that every street was so familiar. 

Heyes stretched out bonelessly in the passenger seat, scrunching down, hat tilted over his head. “Sure could use that cider, Kid.” Heyes had kept talking about it for the last hour: cold, sweet cider, if he could only have it once more in his life. 

“Yeah, yeah.” 

It felt completely natural to pull up between the almost-disappeared white lines of a small parking space at the gas station where he used to maybe once a month buy himself a Dr. Pepper.

It also felt real natural to walk to the humming fridge, pick up a half-gallon of cider, and haul it to the counter. He grabbed a Butterfinger on the way, and then a Snickers for Heyes. 

Heyes stood at the counter, leaning against it, his hat tipped up, smiling at a yellow-haired girl. She was smiling back, all her attention on him. 

Even then, it wouldn’t have been too late. He could’ve turned around, put the things back, walked out and told Heyes where to find them later. 

But he was stupid from a hot day of driving and road glare. He was stupid and slow and he didn’t recognize the girl fast enough.

A look of amazement crossed her face, slow and unstoppable as her big grin. “Jed! Jed Curry! I do declare! I can’t believe you’re comin’ home! Your dad will be so happy. You just missed him, though! You’ll have to wait till he gets back from the trade fair at the end of the week. I can’t believe you came home!”

Kid didn’t know what to say. He just mumbled something as he bought his purchases, his holding the half gallon hand growing numb. He walked off as quick as he could.

Heyes’ boots came running after him, and then his hand was there, pressing warm coins into Kid’s hand, relieving him of the cider. “Forgot your change, Kid.” His smile was wry, warm. He drank the cider standing there, before they walked to the truck. He held the plastic container up and drank deep, deep. Then he handed it to Kid and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Ahh.”

Kid drank, tasting sunshine and old apples. He stared at nothing, and Heyes’ hands were searching and careful as they pried the half-gallon from him again. They drank most of it, handing it back and forth.

“So. Your dad,” said Heyes.

Kid shook his head. He didn’t want to talk about it.

Heyes shaded his eyes, looking into Kid’s. “You want to visit your family while he’s gone? That why we’re here?”

Kid shrugged. 

Heyes’ hand touched his arm, light, warm. “You want to see your mom? Siblings?”

He had a desert in his throat; hard to get the words past, but he did: he did. “Don’t have a mom.” He closed his eyes against old pain. 

After waiting it out, he said the rest. “I have a sister.” Apple of his father’s eye. (Where did you get an expression like that from, anyway?) Where little Jed could do no right and took the brunt of his father’s rage, she got his affection when he had any to give. He believed in her.

“Kid.” Heyes’ hand reached out and landed on his shoulder, lightly, then with more pressure. “We’re here now. Let’s go see your sister. Maybe she can give us some grub.”

 _Grub. Oh yeah._ “Here.” Kid fumbled for the Snickers, handed it over.

Heyes grinned as though Kid had just made the funniest joke ever. He took the bar and ripped it open. With his mouth full, he said, “I still think we should go.”

Kid looked down at the candy bar in his own hands. It wasn’t very big in his hands. The plastic was thin and shiny. It wouldn’t fill him up, just make him hungrier. 

Maybe there’d be biscuits at home. Maybe Jo would be glad to see him, with Dad away. 

He’d never felt more homesick in his life.

He slid the candy into his pocket. “Yeah, okay. Let’s go.”

#

Kid drove, again.

He took them down the small road, to a smaller road, to a dirt track. It was a big ranch, his dad’s place. He wanted to show it off to Heyes, tell him about all the familiar places and things, show him the animals. 

But it had been so long, a lot must’ve changed with the stock. Probably even some of the hands were gone. He hadn’t seen this place since he was fifteen.

Being on Curry land again was like a tight ache in his chest, squeezing, suffocating tighter till he could hardly breathe. He wanted to run away, and he wanted to run closer, both at the same time.

Partway down the road to the big ranch house, Heyes reached over and squeezed his arm. His hand stayed there.

With the windows open, Kid breathed familiar, reddish dust from the hot, dry road. When he parked the truck, he glanced over and saw it on Heyes, that same dust on him now, too, the dust of home.

There were more and different vehicles parked around than usual: dilapidated old farm trucks, fancy little sporty cars. 

From inside the ranch house, even from here, he could hear loud music and female voices raised in giggles and squeals. His sister and her friends, partying like it was 1999.

He and Heyes got out of their battered truck, wearing their ragged clothes, cowboy hats, and boots. They walked up to the door. Kid knocked. He wondered when he’d be able to breathe again, when this crushing sensation would go away.

His sister flung the door open grandly, a can of beer in one hand and a grin on her face. At sight of him, the beer lowered, the grin died and her party spirit fled. Suddenly she looked almost sober. “Jed!”

“Hey Jo.” 

“Hey.” Her gaze focused on his face. 

No, she was still drunk, he saw from the hazy look in her eyes. Even the shock of seeing him wasn’t quite enough to send that haze away. 

She looked older than he remembered, and he thought, older than she should look. Her face was so familiar it hurt, a sharp pang in his stomach, such a part of his childhood, the good and the bad. 

How hard was she hitting the bottle, and why did she still live with Dad? he wondered suddenly. She was two years older than he was, so…old enough to be on her own for sure. Then again, she and Dad had always gotten along pretty well. With a bitter twist in his gut, he knew they must be happier without him. He’d always known, he supposed.

She glimpsed Heyes behind him. “C’mon in. Who’s your friend, Jed?”

“This is Heyes.” He jerked a thumb towards the man.

Heyes doffed his cowboy hat, giving his dimples a workout, along with his best ‘Western’ accent. “Howdy.” 

Jolene laughed. “He’s cute.”

“I know,” said Kid in disgust. He cast his gaze around the kitchen. Surprisingly, it wasn’t in so much of a mess as you’d think, considering there were four girls at the kitchen table playing poker in various states of drink and undress.

One of them was a dishwater blond girl he used to have a crush on. Tracy. One of his sister’s liveliest friends, who’d never noticed him even though she’d filled his thoughts for years. 

Today, Tracy filled his thoughts even more. She wasn’t wearing a shirt. 

He stopped dead in his tracks, couldn’t move or think, utterly aware of every inch of his body, tingling and extremely embarrassed, and unable to look away.

Kid blushed scarlet at the sight of her smoking a cigarette around her lipstick, a beer and a half-eaten piece of pizza in front of her. She sat with her legs tucked up under her. It gave her a look of poignant elegancy, despite her state of non-sobriety. Her hands looked so slender and expressive holding her cards. And her chest had a sort of flush to it, showing the swell and curve of her breasts past the pink lace bra she wore. 

Tracy’s eyes rose and met his, laughing and assessing, with a hint of mockery. Her mouth curved up around the cigarette, tilting it. “Hey, Kid.”

“Hey,” managed Kid.

“We’re playing Strip Poker.” Her eyes laughed at him, and she shifted her torso a bit, showing how much she had to show. Her gaze transferred past him to Heyes, lingered. 

She smiled at Heyes, a nicer smile, one she seemed to mean. “What do you think, Jo? These boys old enough to sit in on the game?”

He heard the grin in Heyes’ voice behind him. “Depends. You got any of that pizza and beer for us?”

He walked past Kid, knocking him lightly on the arm with a fist, and scraped out a kitchen chair to join the girls. It was such a familiar sound, something that filled him with dread from when his father would rise angry from the table, that it snapped him out of his Tracy-stupor. He turned to look at his friend. 

Heyes was at his sharpest-looking around the eyes, and he was using that smile to full effect to charm Jo, Tracy, and their friends. Kid alone saw the wariness and strain behind that look, just how hard he was trying to get control of the situation, find out what was going on and land them in a safe place.

Jo’s fingers closed around Kid’s arm. “Dad’s not here. That why you came?” She handed him half a can of beer. It was still cool, but not cold. They must be running low on ice; probably she’d just stuck a few cans in the fridge and not bothered to wait for them to chill completely.

Kid took a swig. It cleared his dry throat a little. “We were in the area.” He darted a gaze at her to see if she looked suspicious, but she didn’t. “How’s everything?”

“Good. We got some good horses. Daddy’s going to get more.”

Daddy. She still called him ‘Daddy.’

“Dave’s gone. He quit, after you left.”

Kid nodded. He remembered rock-hard hands teaching him to make a lariat, the short, squat man who didn’t say much. ( _Taciturn: a good Power Word._ ) 

Most of all, he remembered a man who’d believed in him. 

It didn’t surprise him Dave had gone. It surprised him the man had stayed as long as he had. Mr. Curry could be a hard boss, and Dave hadn’t approved of his child-rearing methods. Even when he didn’t say anything, you could tell, and Kid’s father didn’t like that, didn’t make Dave’s work any easier for it.

Jo said, “I think you broke his heart.”

“Who? Dave’s?” Kid blinked. 

She rolled her eyes. _“Dad’s.”_

Kid snorted. “He ain’t got one.”

“Kid,” said Heyes, his voice holding a note of command. Kid turned. A message passed between them, startlingly clear in Heyes’ eyes: _‘Is it safe? Can we stay the night?’_

He turned back to Jo. “When’s Dad coming home?”

“Weekend.” She pried the beer free from his hand and took another sip, her eyes narrowing. “You thinking of staying?”

“A night or two.”

“You come for money?”

He shook his head. It hadn’t occurred to him.

She turned away from him and opened the fridge, stood with the coolness wafting up at her face, one bare foot lifted behind her. Waving the door back and forth with the same hand that held her beer, she pulled her shirt away from her body, fanning herself.

Kid turned to the poker table. Heyes caught his arm, pulled him to the seat next to him. One of the girls pushed a beer towards him and grinned at him. “You grew up, Kid.”

He nodded.

“Have a piece of pizza,” said Heyes, his hands pushing one with pepperoni into Kid’s hands. There was something solicitous, protective about him. Kid was too numb to appreciate it. He took a deep drink and watched as the cards were counted out, around the table, around again like a fair ride. He sat at his kitchen table with his sister, a topless Tracy, three other girls, and Heyes. It felt like something in a weird dream, not reality. 

“Nuh-uh. No hats,” said one of the girls, wagging her finger at the boys. “That’s not fair! And you’re starting late, so you have to spot us one piece of clothing each.”

“One boot?” suggested Heyes, his grin wicked and his dimples especially deep. 

“Two if it’s boots.” She grinned back. “We want to see some skin.”

“Please!” Jo leaned back, waving her hands in the air, making a face. “He’s my little brother and his friend. They’re _kids.”_

“I ain’t,” said Heyes in a sturdy voice. “I’m twenty-six. How old are you?”

Kid stared at him. Was Heyes really that old? He’d figured Heyes for a year or two older than him, at most.

Jo’s brows rose. “Ooh. Twenty-six. We got us a mature man here with us, girls.” She took a long drink. “We oughta take advantage of that, what do you say?”

“I say we get his pants off him.” Tracy sat up, waggling her chest a little towards Heyes. 

Heyes. It was always Heyes. 

Even here, sitting at his kitchen table where he’d spent a tense childhood wondering if his dad was going to fly off the handle and hit him today. Now his sister was drunk and acting mean, his boyhood crush was flirting with Heyes. 

Kid scraped his chair back and hurried from the room, practically running. His steps were longer than when he was a little boy. They took him to the barn quickly.

#

Kid stood leaning in the doorway, breathing a mix of clean air and cigarette smoke. He watched Heyes approaching, his walk cocky and confident, his hat tilted to shield his face against the sun. As far as Kid could see, Heyes hadn’t taken off any clothes. Or if he had, he’d put them back on the same way, real careful.

Probably Heyes had already gone all the way, sharing all his dimples and discovering all the secret places of a wickedly smiling Tracy. Maybe he was imagining it; even Heyes couldn’t work that fast. But even imagining it made him feel mean and bitter. He knew very well Heyes could have any girl in that place if he played his cards right. And Heyes was great at cards. 

And Kid was still just the scruffy little brother who got tongue-tied around girls, the little boy that was just _wrong_ somehow, the one that Dad hadn’t loved, the one whose birth had killed his own mother.

Heyes walked up to him and stopped.

“So?” said Kid, blowing out a breath of smoke. His hands were shaking a little, he was so mad, and he was at the end of his cigarette already; it hadn’t calmed him enough. “Is Tracy any good or just a good tease? I gotta hand it to you, you work fast. Or maybe you picked my sister?” 

He didn’t know any words dirty enough to say how he felt about Heyes right now, and he knew a bunch. See? Power Words hadn’t taught him what he needed to know after all.

He spat on the ground and reached for another cigarette. _I trusted you,_ he wanted to say, but it would sound childish, and besides, he’d never really trusted Heyes. Never completely. He knew at least half his rage had nothing to do with Heyes at all.

Heyes took a step closer, looking at Kid, assessing him. “I didn’t,” he said, voice soft. He stood still, ready and very, very calm. “We’ll stay the night and leave tomorrow morning. Unless you can’t stand it, Kid. I won’t make you stay if you don’t want to.” Heyes reached out with one gloved hand and rested it on Kid’s arm.

Kid jerked free. “You couldn’t make me do anything and you know it.” His voice sounded like he was going to start crying any second, but he wasn’t, damn it. “And you don’t have to gentle me like I’m a horse, so keep your bastard hands to yourself.”

“I am a bastard,” said Heyes in a quiet steady voice.

 

“I know.”

“So I don’t mind you calling me that.” 

Kid got it then, and he blinked. That’s not the sort of thing you admit to; even these days, nobody wanted to say it. 

Heyes’ eyes were serious and dark. “But you gotta know if you want to push me away, you can: any time. You want me gone, I’ll go. But I haven’t betrayed you with your old crush, and I won’t. I’ll stay away from the girls, and I’ll leave with you right now if you want. Just don’t act like I’m your enemy because far as I know, I’m the one person who isn’t.” His voice was quiet, hard, and not charming at all. 

A prickle of cold slid down Kid’s neck. Part of him wanted to push Heyes away before Heyes could leave and let him down. The rest of him was frightened by this dark-eyed Heyes confronting him so quietly: was scared Heyes really would leave. As so often happened when he really needed them, words deserted him. 

Heyes looked at him for a moment, then lowered his gaze and moved to lean against the side of the barn an arm’s-length away from Kid. He fished for and lit a cigarette, handed it to Kid. “I’m sorry you’re upset. So, do you want to leave?”

Kid took a deep, shaky breath laden with nicotine and smoke. “He sold my favorite horse.” He pushed his hat up with one thumb, leaned back against the barn and sighed, closing his eyes up at the sky. “Damn, I loved that horse.”

Heyes was a comforting presence beside him, silent for once, not saying anything, but not leaving either. They smoked and Kid thought about everything he’d lost, and the things he’d never had even once. 

Here he was on the run from the law, all at the age of twenty-one, with a man who had become, impossibly, his friend. 

Kid hadn’t had a lot of friends in his life, so he didn’t know how to compare what he and Heyes had with what was ordinary. But if you thought about it, it was pretty special to have somebody who’d go on the lam with you. Not to mention turn down Tracy because she was _your_ crush.

He looked at Heyes. “Are you really twenty-six?”

Dimples showed with a slow, unstoppable smile. “What do _you_ think?”

Kid shrugged. “I can’t tell. I thought you were closer to my age.”

“And you are?” Heyes’ eyes sparkled as he dared Kid to finally tell him the truth about his age.

Kid dropped his finished cigarette, scuffed it out with the heel of his worn-down boot. “I turned twenty-one a couple days before I met you.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and encountered the Butterfinger, now somewhat mangled. He pulled it from his pocket. “You want half?”

Heyes made a face and raised a hand. “No thanks. I’m going to have some more pizza. And I think I saw some ribs in the fridge. If you’ve got a grill around here, I can make a mean barbeque.” 

“You cook?” 

“I don’t mean to brag, but I sure do, Kid.”

“This I gotta taste.” Kid fell into step with his friend without really thinking about it. The two of them meandered back towards the house. Heyes’ hand landed on Kid’s back. 

Oddly, it made him feel safer. Like maybe in this whole world there was one person who wanted him, who liked him.

#

Kid set up tin cans on the fence and checked his gun, hanging low on his hip. 

None of his old clothes had been left here at home. They probably wouldn’t have fit him anyway. He wore his least filthy pair of shorts and no shirt. Everything else was in the wash, blending with Heyes’ also-filthy clothes. 

He glanced back at Heyes, but Heyes wasn’t paying any attention to Kid. Why should he? Tracy was leaning against the picnic table, grinning at Heyes. Heyes’ still-wet hair was slicked back, and he had a big grin on his face while he fiddled with the meat with a meat-grabber thing. Kid didn’t remember the word for it, didn’t think it would show up in Reader’s Digest anytime soon.

Being back home made him feel dumber than ever for thinking he could improve himself with reading. It also made him want to show off the one thing he really was good at: shooting. 

But Heyes had seen it all, and Tracy wasn’t interested. Obviously.

He walked back to stand near them. It wasn’t a far shot. He’d set up a few of the beer cans and a Joker from the pack of cards scattered in the kitchen. He’d wanted to steal the ace of spaces, but hadn’t, in the end; they might decide to play poker again later.

He walked past Heyes, and past Tracy, looking down at her pink toenails and yellow sandals. Her shirt was on now, sort of tied at the middle so you could see her midsection. Not as skinny as a lady on TV or in a magazine, but fascinating all the same. Kid glanced at Heyes’ feet, too: bare, bony, a little hairy near the toes. They looked silly somehow, too pale. 

“Well, I don’t know about that,” Heyes was saying, in a voice that said he was charmed all the same.

“Stand back, ‘cause I’m gonna shoot,” announced Kid. Heyes raised his gaze to look and then went back to the meat. Tracy didn’t even glance over. 

Kid took his gunfighter stance. Hands loose at his sides. Imagined himself in the Old West, ready to right all sorts of wrongs. He squinted his eyes a little, took a breath, released it—then went for his gun and fired six rounds: bam bam bam bam bam bam. He blew on the end of his gun to look cool, gave it a flip and put it back in his holster in one smooth move.

He could feel their eyes on him now. He didn’t let his face change, didn’t dare. His walk was confident, maybe even a little cocky as he strode past them without looking and gathered the fallen cans and card. Each had been plugged squarely through the middle. They watched him walk back and plop the armload down on the picnic table. 

“When’s it ready to eat, Heyes?” asked Kid.

Heyes wore jeans and a white t-shirt. He didn’t have any shorts and apparently didn’t like to go bare-chested. 

“Soon,” replied Heyes’ familiar, jaunty, deep voice. He flipped another piece of meat, peered at it, and flipped it back over again. He was making a meal of his cooking.

“I’m hungry now.” Kid took off his cowboy hat and scratched his fingers back through his own damp hair. The shower had felt good, and it was nice to think of his clothes flopping around in the wash, getting clean so he wouldn’t have to wear crunchy, filthy things to work in tomorrow. Because they were leaving tomorrow. Final word.

He glanced at Tracy while trying to look like he wasn’t. She was staring at the targets. As he watched, she gave a sort of guffaw that somehow still sounded pretty and girlish and walked over. She picked up the card. “You did that earlier. You faked that.”

Kid felt his face go hot. “No.”

“No, he’s really that good,” said Heyes at the same moment. “He does it professionally. Here, why don’t you go get another card, and he’ll show you?”

 _He’s helping me,_ thought Kid, feeling like he was in a dream. He could impress Tracy. She’d finally see that he existed. And then—

She snorted again, turning away. “That’s okay, I don’t like guns. I need more beer.” She sauntered away, her backside swaying and as perfect as her long, long legs with their dimpled backs behind the knees. 

What was the back of your knees called? Kid leaned against the picnic table and crossed his arms, scowling. “Any more bright ideas, genius?”

Heyes gave him a rueful, gleeful grin, brandishing his flipper thing as if he meant to use it to swat Kid. “Don’t blame me. It was your idea. Maybe if you took up cooking.” He gestured to the clean, white apron tied around him, chest puffed up and proud, eyes sparkling with teasing wit.

“I hate my life.” Always compared to Heyes, always second best. Except at the things he really was better with and nobody cared about. 

Back in the Old West, it would’ve mattered. Tracy would’ve been damned impressed. 

Tracy probably would’ve been old before her time as a married woman with a lot of kids. Or maybe she’d have worked in a cathouse and got some disease and wasted away. Watching her yellow sandals disappear into the house, for a minute he relished that thought, wicked as it was.

“Don’t get proddy, Kid,” said Heyes softly. “You’re just focusing on the bad stuff now. You’ll get lots of things you want.”

“Shut up,” said Kid without rancor. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Who told you you were allowed to read my mind?”

Heyes laughed and flipped the meat again. “Damn, I’m good.”

“You suck. Is it ready yet?”

“Yeah. I think it’s ready. Get me a plate.”

Kid stretched for it and handed it over. His eyes stayed broodily on the door and waited for Tracy. But she didn’t come back.

#

“But Jo—” 

Kid felt like he was six years old, arguing with his sister about who should get the TV for the few minutes before they had to go to bed. And losing. Jo was older. Jo had more words, more confidence: was just better at arguing.

She fixed him with a steely-eyed look. “I don’t care. We had this party set up for weeks. Dad doesn’t go away very often and I don’t get to have my friends over.”

“But it’s a sleepover. Don’t you all stay up and talk and laugh and stuff? Just use a sleeping bag and stay in fewer rooms. Me and Heyes—”

She got up in his face, pugnacious and mean with too much to drink, hands on her hips, breath smelling ugly. “Oh, what, you think just because you’re MEN you shouldn’t have to share a room?”

Tracy’s voice rose, lilting and taunting. “No, they think they’ll turn gay. All men are afraid of that, you know.” She took another drink, her eyes laughing at Kid.

Tracy wasn’t always like this. When he was younger, she just ignored him. Now she treated him like this. He wished it was enough to make him stop noticing her.

Kid felt his face growing hot. With his complexion it showed; it always showed. He gripped his gun belt, hard. He’d never wanted to hit a girl before and was ashamed of it now; but he wanted to anyway.

“Hardly,” said Heyes, in his best calm-and-taking-control voice. “Look, it’s no big deal. We don’t want to interrupt your fun. Thanks for letting us stay. We’ll share a room. It’s no problem.”

Kid turned to stare at him, because he knew it damn well was a problem. Heyes shared a bunk, but that was it. He didn’t like anybody too close to him. 

Heyes probably meant he and Kid would flip a coin for the bed. Kid’s eyes narrowed, knowing who would win—or rather, who would lose. Heyes might’ve become a good friend, but he was still pretty tricky. He seemed to enjoy the challenge of getting one past Kid sometimes, and though Kid hadn’t figured out the coin trick yet, he was absolutely sure there _was one._

That friendly hand landed on his shoulder. “We don’t mind, do we, Kid?” Their eyes met, and Kid nodded. Heyes didn’t want Jo getting mad and threatening to kick them out. He was also trying to help Kid so that Tracy couldn’t win.

“Okay,” said Kid.

A half hour later, Heyes was the one spreading his sleeping bag on the floor. He hadn’t even suggested a coin toss. 

They’d laundered their sleeping bags after their clothes finished. Done a lot of wash, even shaved and taken turns trimming each other’s hair. Tracy had laughed at that, too. But she wouldn’t cut it for him when he said she could do it instead. She’d just laughed and walked away with that sway to her hips.

Kid didn’t think he could’ve stood it for another day. So it was a good thing they were leaving tomorrow. Yeah, a good thing.

Kid leaned on one elbow and look at his partner in the bag, sleeping on the floor. “Heyes, we can share, you know.”

“No, thanks.”

Kid bounced a little. “It ain’t a problem, sharing. It’s a big bed, and soft. Ain’t you always complaining about how hard the ground is? Well, that floor ain’t any softer.” He pointed to it with his trigger finger.

“I do not complain,” said Heyes with dignity, snatching a pillow off the big bed and placing at inside his bag. “I NEVER complain.”

Kid snorted. “Yeah, you just practice your grimaces, looking grumpy and pathetic.”

Heyes made a grouchy, complaining sound sort of like a grunt and crawled into his sleeping bag. He pulled up the zip—a long, squeaking sound.

Kid grinned, then sobered. “If it bothers you that much, I’ll take the floor and you can have the bed. It don’t bother me, sleeping on hard surfaces. Besides, I’m younger than you,” he added with wicked generosity.

Heyes made a face at him from the sleeping bag. He crossed his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling.

Kid bounced a little more. “It’s a big bed, Heyes. I can’t remember what it’s called, but it’s not a regular-sized, one-person bed.”

“Queen. It’s a Queen-Sized bed.” Pause. “I can’t help it, Kid! I don’t like sharing.”

“I ain’t asking you to share. You have that half and I have this one. C’mon, Heyes! You’re just being stubborn.”

“Oh, and you’re never stubborn, is that it?” He turned a hunted glare on Kid, a glare that said very clearly ‘Shut up and drop it—now.’

Something dropped, but it was the penny, not the subject. “Oh, I get it. Because of jail.”

“Would you shut up about jail?” hissed Heyes, glowering at him, propping himself on one elbow. “They could be listening.”

Kid hopped up and walked to the door. Opened it, looked out, and shut it. “They ain’t. I still hear the TV downstairs. Assholes. They could’ve given us two rooms.” 

“Kid, we aren’t about to fight with girls who could call the police on us if they wanted to.”

“They couldn’t. They’d get in trouble with their parents if they did. Besides, I don’t think they know the cops want us.”

“Yeah, me neither, but the cops might know. Kid, just go to bed, damn it.”

Kid had moved to Heyes’ sleeping bag and stood there looking down at Heyes with crossed arms. He reached out with one foot and nudged the bottom of Heyes’ sleeping bag, began jostling the end of it.

“Quit it!” Heyes kicked back sharply inside the sleeping bag, a scowl on his face.

Kid stopped, but stayed standing over him, arms crossed, looking down. “Heyes, if there’s one thing you gotta know about me it’s this. I ain’t never gonna hurt you. You wanted me as a friend in the first place because I could defend you. Well, I can. I will. With my gun, my fists, even my Power Words if they’ll help. I ain’t never gonna do anything to you, and to be honest, I ain’t interested.”

He moved to the bed and climbed in, on the far side away from Heyes, leaving plenty of room. He turned out the little light and closed his eyes. He told himself to go to sleep, it was safe, his father wasn’t coming home, his gun was within reach, and Heyes was here to help watch his back.

After a few minutes, the bed creaked and the covers shifted just slightly. He listened as Heyes finished climbing in, staying on the far side quite away from him. Then Kid did fall asleep.

#

Morning awakening brought familiar hunger, and unfamiliar warmth and comfort. Kid rolled over and stretched, felt his foot knock against something. He drew back immediately, but the something moved instinctively away. 

Waking up further, he realized it had been Heyes’ foot and he’d just kicked his best friend awake.

His best friend? Was Heyes—?

The answer was easy and automatic. Of course he was. 

It was a special surprise to realize. Kid had never had one when he was little. He’d thought he was too old now to have one. 

But he did, and it was Heyes.

 _I better not tell him. It sounds kinda dumb,_ he decided, stretching further and then getting up.

Sleepy-eyed, Heyes regarded him from under thick eyelashes. He obviously wasn’t ready to get up yet. He’d grown stubble overnight. Kid envied that. He’d always wanted a manly, fast-growing five o’clock shadow. With his fair hair and youthful features, it just didn’t happen. He almost never needed to shave. All he seemed to get was slow-growing peach fuzz.

Heyes raised his arms over his head and stretched. “Good morning,” he said in a raspy, croaking voice. 

“Morning,” said Kid. He was hungry for coffee and a cigarette. He wanted a huge breakfast.

“Kid,” said Heyes, still in that gravelly voice. His eyes were serious and somber and somehow warm all the same. 

“Yeah?” Kid had been reaching for his boots, but something made him stop and pay attention to his friend now. His best friend.

“It’s true I wanted your gun at first. Your gun and your angry toughness that keeps people from messing with you. I wanted to share in that.” He stretched again. “But it isn’t like that anymore. You’re… my friend. I like that I can’t bullshit you. I can be myself around you—well, close as I ever get. So… don’t go thinking you’re just my bodyguard, all right?”

Kid nodded. He didn’t know what to say, and his throat felt funny. He pulled on his boots, keeping his head down.

“Hey.” Heyes’ hand landed on his blond curls, scrubbed gently. “You hungry? I think there’s some bacon and eggs down there.”

Kid nodded. “I think there’s some English muffins, too.”

“Good. Well, you toast them and make coffee, and I’ll cook the rest. Then we’ll leave.”

“Okay,” said Kid. Heyes was being bossy but for once, Kid didn’t mind. Heyes was doing the hard work, anyway.

#

Kid made the coffee extra strong because both he and Heyes liked it that way. He remembered where everything was in the kitchen. Nothing had changed. 

The muffins toasted, the coffee perked, and Heyes did things that smelled delicious at the stove. Kid fetched their laundry, fluffed it, and started folding it and packing it away in their bags. One shirt for him, one for Heyes. One pair of jeans for him, one for Heyes.

“You should get rid of this one.” Kid stuck three fingers through the hole in the knee of one of Heyes’ jeans, waggled them at Heyes, who glanced over and grinned. He was wearing that apron again. 

“Nah, that’s style. People pay good money for that kind of stuff. I got it honest.” He carefully flipped an egg and grinned at his success. “I only broke two of the yokes. I’ll eat them, don’t worry.”

“I don’t mind. I’ll take one.”

“Thanks, Kid.” He turned off the burner, checked the other pan, poked at the bacon. It smelled wonderful: wood-smoked and tantalizing.

“You got your sleeping bag? Filled your water bottle?” Kid zipped up his bag and opened his mouth to ask Heyes something about the bacon, a half-smile on his face.

Then everything changed.

His dad. At the screen door. Standing as if poleaxed (whatever that was; Kid’s Words had never taught him that!). 

Dad. 

Home early. 

Catching him and Heyes. 

He was now in the least safe place in the known universe, the safety of the ranch gone forever.

Dad had found him after all.

Heyes must have seen something in his face because his smile disappeared and he turned, still holding the spatula. “Mr. Curry. Hello.”

Dad entered the room and pushed past Heyes, not seeming to even see him. “How dare you show your face here?!”

_Synonyms escape me._

He could feel the intelligence, confidence, and maturity bleeding out of him under that familiar glare he'd thought he’d never see again, except perhaps in his dreams. 

Here he was. Face to face. Good ol' Dad. 

It used to drive Kid crazy how everybody in the world but him seemed to get nostalgic about fathers. Such talk made Kid feel sour, defensive, and bright-green jealous. 

Well, he didn't have that kind of father. He'd given up on having that, but he didn't want this neither. He wasn't going to put up with it anymore. So when his father's tirade started, when angry steps approached and big hands rose threateningly, Kid reacted automatically.

He pulled his gun.

Like any hunted beast, Kid snarled when cornered. And, he realized with startling clarity, he could shoot to wound if he ever had to. His spine prickled with cold at the thought.

But all the same, his gaze didn't waver, his gun didn't shake; Mr. Curry had to know Kid meant this. "Stay away from me, old man."

"Or what? You'll shoot?" Cold eyes showed his rage and dismissal.

"Yeah."

"He won't." Heyes stepped between them. He moved elegant and precise even when he was scared. A strange peacemaker he made, with an apron and spatula. 

"Who do you think you are? Get out of here." Mr. Curry dismissed Heyes as nobody.

“Stay back!” warned Kid, raising his gun to aim at his father’s shoulder. “I’ll shoot.”

"No. Nobody's gonna get shot today." Heyes looked at Kid real steady, ignoring Mr. Curry. Heyes stood at his tallest, most contained, force-of-nature self. Also, real quiet. Kid didn't have no big words left to describe it, but all the same it was impressive.

And it made him feel calmer. He looked past Heyes, met his father’s glare. 

"I don't wanna be your son," said Kid from somewhere in the deepest part of himself: not words that he chose, words that erupted like a slow-moving volcano, unstoppable, plowing down Hawaiian houses. 

He couldn't remember what that was called neither, that flow of melted rock. "If I turn out like you it'll be the worst thing I could ever do." Even worse than being on the run for accidentally killing a man. 

_And yet, ain't that where I'm headin', holding onto grudges the way he does?_

"Well, I don't want a SON that walks out on his family!" growled Mr. Curry. "You take your lazy ass and get off this ranch. I ain't paying for the upkeep of no prodigal son. You don't have a job or a home here. You lost both when you left. Now you get out. Get out, or I'll call the cops on a thief and trespasser."

"I’m goin’," said Kid, voice shaking, too angry to think of anything better to say. He grabbed his bag; it thumped against his side, hard. Keeping gun in hand, he shoved past his father. 

Part of him almost wanted his father to try something. The rest was afraid, terrified by this whole situation: his father, threats of cops. He wanted to run and keep on running, didn’t know if he’d ever feel safe again.

But all the same, his father wasn’t as tall as Kid remembered. And he looked older. There was some comfort in that—or there might be, if he could ever get away from here.

“That’s right. You run, boy. You ain’t never gonna be a man.”

Kid didn’t turn around. Told himself it didn’t matter what the old man said. But it burned in his belly like the other things his father had said to him. So many words in moments of anger, in the years, the lifetimes of enforced closeness on this ranch. 

If family meant cutting each other up with words the way his father did, Kid didn’t want to be part of one ever again.

“He’s a better man than you are,” said Heyes’ familiar voice, surprisingly angry. “You don’t even see what’s right in front of you. You’re disowning the best man you’ll ever meet.”

Father snarled at Heyes. “Get out of my face. Who do you think you are?”

The words rang in Kid’s head. Could he have really heard that? ‘Best man you’ll ever meet?’

Heyes stood tall, chest puffed out, eyes sparking. “Fine. I need to get my bag.”

Mr. Curry flung an arm towards the door. “Just get out! Probably stealing my silverware.”

“You mean your steel cutlery? Kid, start the truck.” Mr. Curry looked menacing, but Heyes didn’t look scared. That was okay. Kid was scared enough for both of them. He planted his feet and stared at them. His gun hand twitched. 

“You step one foot back in this house, I’ll deck you.” Mr. Curry’s fist rose.

“You ain’t hitting him,” said Kid, low and strained. Dad ignored him.

Heyes glanced at Kid, then looked back to Mr. Curry. “Then get my bag for me.”

He grinned. “You stole food and shelter. Maybe I oughta keep the contents.”

Kid’s gun cocked. “Get it or let him get it. We’re going.”

His father turned to him, opening his mouth to say something. Kid stared hard at his father. For once, it looked like his father stared back and really SAW him. He looked almost startled, as much as a man like him ever could. Whatever he did see, it stopped him.

Heyes slipped past. Kid and his father stared at one another. Seconds ticked. Dad’s eyes were pale and angry, holding a lifetime of hate that didn’t have no outlet. Kid tried to keep all expression wiped off his face and stared back, meeting that gaze, holding his gun steady. He was holding a gun on his own father. Who wasn’t anymore. 

“You really think you’re something, don’t you?” said Mr. Curry, his lip curling. But something wasn’t letting him look away, as if he could no longer completely dismiss Kid, even if he still despised him.

Heyes emerged without the apron, carrying his bag. “C’mon, Kid.”

Kid kept his gun out, at the ready, till they were to the truck. Dad watched him from the doorway. Watched him go. 

Kid’s heart was pounding and he felt a little sick. He got in the truck and dropped his bag at his feet. Heyes slung his in the back, climbed into the cab, started the engine on his second try, and reversed, fast.

Kid hung on, gun still solid and trustworthy in his hand, his finger not on the trigger, though. Heyes’ driving thrust him forward a little; he hadn’t put on his seatbelt. He gripped the seat, hard, with his free hand. 

Dad was still watching. Kid didn’t know where Jo or the other girls had got to. _Guess they’re still in bed, missed the whole thing. Wonder if she’ll get in trouble? Nah. Of course not. Not Jo._

But for one moment, one shining moment and despite everything, he didn’t care. Heyes, the man beside him, believed in him. Nobody had done that for a real long time.

“You did real good, Kid,” said Heyes quietly. He didn’t take his eyes off the dirt road.

Kid stared out the window, watching familiar landscape pass by, feeling a familiar pain in his chest. He held his gun like it would save his life.

#

“My eggs are better.”

Kid turned from staring vaguely out the window to look at his partner-in-crime. “Huh?”

They were sitting at a booth at Denny’s, two hours’ drive from the Curry ranch. Kid blinked, trying to figure out what was going on.

Heyes was smiling at him: showing his dimples, inviting Kid to share in his joke. “My eggs. They’re better than these.” Heyes took another careful bite. He even had dimples when he chewed, looking like he was trying not to smile. 

Kid wondered if he’d always be in the shadow of those dimples. If he’d ever meet a girl who liked him best, just because. 

It mattered. But right now it didn’t matter nearly as much as the other thing, the main thing: Heyes had backed him up. Heyes had stood up for him. It had only been a few words spoken indignantly on Kid’s behalf, but it had meant the world to him. 

Heyes reached across the table, his touch light on Kid’s elbow. “Hey, you all right? You seem out of it. You’re not letting your dad get to you, are you?”

I always have before. “I’m thinking about things.” He hesitated, then added, “Thanks.” _For being there. For sticking up for me. For thinking I matter._ Kid ducked his head a little, stared down at his plate. 

A warm hand swatted his arm. “Hey, no problem. Now would you eat?”

“I just ain’t all that hungry.” No wonder Heyes was worried. Kid hadn’t touched his meal, eggs sitting there growing cold, syrup soaking into the pancakes, making them soggy. 

“Well now I know something’s wrong. At least try some before you decide that! They’re not really all that bad. Even though I make ‘em better.” His dancing eyes encouraged Kid to get in on the joke, to believe him, or question it, or just laugh. 

Kid reached for his coffee. He was pretty sure he could get that down.

#

Night brought peace: the stars above, his sleeping bag on the lumpy ground (clean now, smelling like the dryer at the ranch). Heyes was beside him, a dim lump in the starlight. A half-moon hung overhead. 

What would tomorrow bring? Would that shell-shocked feeling of his father disowning him be gone by then? He stared up at the stars and wondered how it was possible to feel numb and to hurt at the same time.

The foggy vagueness that had followed him ever since leaving the ranch now led him into sleep. Crickets followed him down, a safe sound, the sound of the wilderness.

#

Morning. Almost-dawn. Birds and Kid were awake. He climbed from his bag, slid his boots on, shook his bag out, and folded it. 

Heyes was scrunched down in his bag, his straight, dark hair wispy and disarrayed, his face hid in the folds of blue cloth. 

“Heyes.” Kid kicked the end of his bag lightly. 

Heyes jerked awake, head popping out of his bag. Kid regretted not waking him more slowly, but there wasn’t a real good way to wake Heyes, probably best to just do it quick anyway.

“Yeah, Kid?” Heyes voice croaked. He squinted up at Kid, his hair messier than ever. 

Kid remembered to run fingers back through his own curls to straighten them a bit. Now he could say it, he felt hesitant suddenly, not sure why. “We gotta get started, Heyes. Big day ahead.”

Surprisingly, Heyes grinned, broad and dimpled, and he hopped up right away. “Sure thing, Kid.” 

He didn’t ask any questions till after they’d packed up their things in the truck, made coffee, and kicked sand over the fire. When they were driving again (Kid this time, taking his turn), Heyes spoke. 

“So, are we going to California?” He smoked his first cigarette of the day, rationing it, savoring it. His eyes were friendly, sincere, enquiring. He looked ready to go wherever his friend wanted to. 

Kid realized it with a feeling like biting down on the middle of a tootsie roll pop: Heyes was here for the long haul. He wasn’t even trying to control the situation or scheme; he was just ready to go. And he’d been waiting for Kid to decide.

Kid grinned, what felt like his first honest grin in almost twenty-four hours. 

“I want to call Lom,” he admitted. “My dad and Jo obviously didn’t know about the warrant out for my arrest, so it stands to reason there isn’t one. The authorities would’ve checked to see if I’d gone home. They didn’t. So that means that guy survived, and maybe I’m not even wanted at all.”

“I figured that, Kid. I’m glad you think so, too.”

Of course he’d figured it out; Heyes’ mind was always working. But he’d kept his mouth shut and let Kid take his own time. He hadn’t pushed, conned, or dimpled his way to any decision at all: he’d just left it up to Kid.

Kid found himself smiling gratefully—and feeling sheepish for what he was about to say next. “I want to go home,” he admitted. “I woke up this morning and I wanted to go home. And I can’t think of no place that felt like home except the circus.”

“All right.” Heyes nodded decisively, his hand lowering his cigarette. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad. I’ve been wanting to go back, too.”

Kid grinned. “But we gotta call, first. Do you have some change, or will we have to call collect?”

“What, 1-800-ATT, Kid?”

“Not unless you have a bright orange wig to wear.” 

“I have change. Anyway, we can just call—10-10-321,” said Heyes, his smile curving, dimpling.

Kid chuckled. “Yeah, stupid commercials. Get stuck in your head.”

That got him thinking about other things: remembering, forgetting, and dumbness. He spoke out loud, more to himself than Heyes, concentrating as he drove. 

“I think it’s time I get some books about words. Reader’s Digest ain’t enough anymore. And I need to figure out how to say the words I’m learning. It ain’t—it’s not—enough to just read them. I want to sound smart one day.”

“Kid,” said Heyes, turning a warm, brown, profoundly affectionate look on him. “You sound pretty damned smart to me already.”

Kid tried to dim his sheepish grin, but it proved impossible. They rode off into the sunrise together, him and Heyes.

#

Heyes was the one on the phone: of course he was, silver tongue like his.

“Howdy, Lom.” Heyes fingered the phone line restlessly, the only sign that he was nervous. Otherwise he stood very still. He sounded calm, casual. “We were wondering if you’d still have a job for us, if we decided to come back.” 

Kid leaned nearer into the phone booth till his head was almost touching Heyes’, but he still couldn’t hear Lom’s response. He held his breath trying to hear. Heyes put a hand on Kid’s head and shoved him gently back, ruffling his curls in the process. Kid grinned and backed off. He crossed his arms and waited, leaning against the grimy glass of the phone booth, then reached up and tilted his hat up. 

“Yes, sir,” said Heyes. “Well, we ran into some trouble. I’m afraid we just took off. It seemed like a good idea at the time.” Dimpled grin. (Damn, he even grinned when he was being charming over the phone!)

“Uh huh. Uh-huh. Well, we appreciate that, Mr. Trevors. We surely do. Thank you. Yes sir.”

Kid held out a hand for the phone, and Heyes handed it to him, smirking. He gave Kid a reassuring nod.

“Hello? Mr. Trevors?” Kid spoke into the phone. The line crackled. 

A familiar, somewhat amused voice replied, “Kid Curry.”

“You’ll take us back?” He had to hear it for himself. Even if he trusted Heyes now, he needed to be absolutely certain. Because he’d never really trusted Lom. Maybe that would have to change, too, if he came through for them now. Maybe it was time Kid got over the way he felt about older men, to stop letting all of them reminded him of his father.

“I just told Heyes I would. We’ll be in Houston for a week. Meet us there and you’ve got your old jobs back. I can always use Heyes’ voice, and you’re good with a gun—when you’re not running off like a scared jackrabbit.”

Kid kept a conscious rein on his feeling, not letting himself get mad the way he usually would at such words. “Well, we’ll catch you there. Thanks.” He hung up and stood staring at the phone. This was it. They had their old lives back. 

He examined his impressions. Could it be a trap? Nope. Lom’s voice hadn’t held anything to hint at that, and Lom wasn’t a very good liar. Kid had been around him enough to see that. This was a straight, above-board job offer: their old lives again. His heart lifted at the thought.

Heyes gave him a triumphant smile. “We’re back! There’s nobody out to get us. Isn’t that great?” He gave Kid a pat on the arm that turned into a rough, friendly rub.

Kid adjusting his hat, nodded. This felt like a real profound moment. He was as glad as Heyes looked, it just didn’t come out in words for him, the way it did for Heyes.

Heyes walked away from the phone booth, his steps jaunty and confident. Kid followed.

They were going home. Home.

#

 

The drive was long and dusty. Heyes had a cough from smoking too much. 

They’d splurged on a good restaurant meal with steak, tacos, French fries, and chocolate pie, all the things they liked to eat. Then they spent the rest on cigarettes. Kid had bought a few candy bars, too, and stuffed them away in his bag.

“You oughta quit, Heyes.” Kid glanced over at Heyes, who was coughing again.

Heyes shook his head, coughed into his fist. “I’ve tried before, even in jail. It’s just too hard. I don’t have the self-discipline.”

“Don’t give me that. You can sleep on the hard ground for a couple of months, but you can’t give up cigarettes?”

“You first.” Heyes lit up another one with his silver lighter and dexterous fingers.

“I’m workin’ on it,” said Kid, one side of his mouth sliding up in a wry grin. It wasn’t often he heard Heyes sounding defensive like that. He slowed down to let a big truck pass them. No need to make it into a race; they had plenty of time to reach Houston. 

Heyes reached over and fiddled with the radio, changing the station to classical music.

“You sick of Country again?” Kid glanced at his friend again. “Where’d you get that silver lighter, anyway? It must be real important for you never to sell it.”

Heyes stilled. His cigarette jiggled. “It’s… sort of a memory. Maybe not something I should be proud of.” He looked down at his lighter, rubbed it with a thumb. “But I am anyway.”

“Huh.”

“What?” Heyes looked at him, brow crinkled slightly.

“Nothing. I just realized I don’t really know all that much about you,” said Kid. “You know most everything about me by now, but I don’t know much about you.”

“Well. You always know when I’m lying.” Heyes flashed his dimples. But then the smile vanished, leaving his face sober and his eyes somber. “I guess you don’t, Kid. I haven’t shared a lot of detail, but I feel like we know each other pretty well anyway.” He cast Kid an enquiring, humble look, a little worried.

Kid nodded. “Sure. I was just thinkin’ out loud. You don’t have to tell me everything.”

“Kid, I don’t mind. I can tell you more. But let me take my time, okay? I… haven’t shared many details with you, partly because I didn’t think it mattered and partly because I didn’t want you to think less of me.” He hesitated. “I’m trying to be a better person. I like that you expect more of me, and I guess I don’t want that to change.”

Kid didn’t know what to say. Heyes didn’t want him to think less of him? 

He needed to say something, though. He wasn’t sure how, but Heyes had said all that, even if it was hard, so he had to try. “I guess the details don’t matter so much, Heyes. I’d like to know more about you, that’s all. ‘Cuz you’re my best friend.” He didn’t dare look at Heyes when he said this.

“I’m—I’m glad, Kid. Mine too.” He could hear the grin: too big by half, unstoppable dimples at large.

Now Kid couldn’t stop grinning, either. He was supposed to be too mature to feel this good about such a declaration. But he wasn’t. He was just Kid Curry, fastest gun in the West, riding in a truck with his best friend, grinning like he’d never stop.

#

Kid adjusted his gun belt one last time, checked to see his shirt was buttoned straight, fixed his hat, and waited. It was hard not to hold your breath like something amazing was ahead. You got scared, of course you did. Well, Heyes probably didn’t, but Kid still did.

He waited for Heyes to finish his speech. “Ladies and gentlemen, the AMAZING Kid Curry!” Music started.

That was his cue. Kid brushed aside the cloth and stepped into the ring. The lights were bright, the auditorium’s seats crowded, nearly full. A good gig Lom had found, here at Houston. 

“And here he is!” said Heyes, into his microphone. A smattering of applause, and the music swelled. Kid bowed. He risked a glance at Heyes, saw the wicked twinkle in those familiar eyes, teasing even as he was hard at work, using all his charm and charisma to sell this and every other circus act.

Kid had to school his face to keep from grinning back. This was it: better than Hollywood, he felt certain. Even famous movie stars couldn’t feel the same awe and excitement of this audience watching you, live. 

Heyes beamed, gesturing broadly to Kid, and then to the set up equipment. “Let’s see if he’ll shoot some targets for us today!”

Kid stepped forward. And he did.

 

 

[fin]


End file.
